


he's a forest fire

by espinosas



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, The Prison, little bit of angst too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-07 11:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11622567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espinosas/pseuds/espinosas
Summary: Paul had, not once, visited Georgia in his life, before or after the outbreak.





	1. Chapter 1

Paul had, not once, visited Georgia in his life, before or after the outbreak had began.

He wasn’t sure why; he’d left his home state of Virginia enough times, passport dog-eared and pages pressed together with overuse. England had been the most common, finding temporary work and ever more temporary relationships he wouldn’t have to pick up was just easiest halfway across the world.

When the outbreak had began, he’d been lucky. He knew of Barrington house, he’d even visited the grounds several times as a kid. The staff at the home would take a selection of the children there once a year, saw it as a treat, an indulgence they were taught to feel they didn’t deserve. The walls were already half constructed when he got there.

Thinking back, Paul wasn’t too sure what had actually led him there. Maybe it was the link to his previous life he found comfort in. Maybe it was the security the popularity of the house provided; it’d always been a big tourist attraction in a town infamous for bankruptcy and the surrounding woods. He should have known it wouldn’t take long to fall.

He’d been one of the handful of residents at the community who knew how to fight off the dead and protect the living. He’d been sleeping when it had happened. It was so simple – a small herd of the dead had gotten in through a hole in the wall. The residents had panicked, gone haywire. The leader had been torn apart in front of them.

Paul had rushed to leave with only the coat on his back and the blades at his hip. A few months later, he’d found himself touring the outskirts of Atlanta.

He hadn’t been the only one. He came across a small group of survivors he’d initially mistaken for the dead earlier that day. They hid under layers of dirt and grime, blood streaked on each of their cheeks like a trophy, a title. They’d ambushed him in the woods and taken what little supplies he had. He fought back, managed to take down several of them before one came behind and struck his thigh. He’d used the blade to kill them. He had managed to stabilize the bleeding and bandage the wound with a strip of his shirt and his belt. It had already bled through by the time he’d came across the clinic he was now holed up in.

He pulled open the next cabinet door, scoured the scarce shelves for anything of use left behind. Blood thinners, antacids, methadone. He groaned, pushed the cabinet door shut. He hobbled further across the room, hissed as his foot collided with the ground.

Paul made for the desk a few metres away when he heard a smash of glass. He stilled, veins thrumming faster with every dragging second. He turned, one hand fingering the base of his blade and the other pulling him forward.

Footsteps came from out in the hallway in front of him, approaching the doorway on the opposite side of the room. He pulled out his knife, gripped it hard enough that his knuckles went white.

“ _Shit_ ,” left his lips, quiet, hushed.

He saw the bow before he saw the pair. It was pointed directly at him, slender and chipped grey at the mouth. He looked to the hands that held it and traveled up bare arms to squinting eyes.

Another curse word.

“Who are you?”

Paul straightened as much as he could, groaned at the pain that shot up his leg. “Look, I just need medicine and I’ll be gone. Do you-“

The other person stepped forward, a woman, eyes narrowed in the bowman’s direction. She looked back to Paul, short hair tucked behind her ear. She pressed down on the neck of the crossbow, gaze trained on Paul.

“Daryl,” She hissed out the name, forcing the guy to drop his bow completely. She looked back to Paul. “I’m Maggie, this is Daryl. Are you hurt?”

Paul swallowed. He looked back to the bowman, chewing on his lip. “I got stabbed in my leg, a couple assholes stole my shit and ran. It’s nothing.”

Maggie came closer. She settled her backpack on the desk, supplies filled it to the brim.

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” She took gentle grip of his arm, helped him back onto the chair behind him. “We can change the bandage for you, clean it.”

At his meek protesting, Maggie simply tutted. She leaned down on her knees, ran sweaty palms over her thighs with a heavy breath. She looked back to Daryl. “Water?”

Daryl passed her a bottle that was already in hand, half empty. She pushed the tip to Paul’s lips with a smile. “I take it you don’t have a camp?”

Paul shook his head. Daryl rested his bow at the wall and came to help Maggie rip at his pant leg. The pair whispered between them as she sterilized the wound. Paul caught sight of the bloodied gauze and paled, blood languid and frozen in his veins.

“Do you… do _you_ guys have a place?”

Daryl cleared his throat, watching him beneath furrowed brows. “Yeah, the prison a couple miles west from here.”

Paul’s eyes widened. His voice came quiet. "Shit, how did you manage that?”

Maggie snorted. She pierced the skin of his thigh and he jerked back with his bottom lip between his teeth. “Sorry.”

Daryl perched himself on the desk, blew out air. “We’ve done much crazier shit than that.”

Maggie guffawed. “There weren’t too many walkers. There’s quite a few more of us- were a few more. He’s just showin’ off.”

The needle pierced sensitive skin again and Paul couldn’t muffle the cry that escaped his mouth, or the haziness of each blink that followed.

“Keep him awake,” He heard Maggie stammer out.

Daryl took the bottle from Paul’s grip, settled it on the desk. “Where you from..?”

“Paul, Paul Rovia. And Virginia.” The throbbing in his leg only increased, and sudden exhaustion hit him in thrashing waves. All he wanted to do was sleep, close his eyes. He fought to keep them open, trained on Daryl and not the metal sewing a hole up in his leg. The older man hummed.

It was Maggie who spoke up, however. “My daddy took me there once, to DC, for my sister’s birthday. I loved it.”

A breathy chuckle from Paul followed. “I’ve never even been to DC.”

Daryl snorted. “Well, I ain’t never left Georgia before.”

Paul’s brows rose along with Maggie’s. She had a kind face, he thought. Bright eyes, though guarded. Daryl, too. He could tell life hadn’t been kind to either of them, just as it hadn’t to himself, to anybody. The bags under their eyes and the scars that surfaced their skin was proof of that. He noticed a single, thin line spanning Daryl’s temple and the punctured white of Maggie’s bicep.

Paul looked back to the window, the only one still intact in the room. It was still light out, the sky bleeding warmth. Pink shone behind shallow clouds, moulded into orange. He just about felt the soft light that filtered through on his face.

The threading in his thigh went stationary and Maggie snipped off the end, then stood on staggering legs. “We’re gonna take you back with us, is that okay?”

Paul struggled to open his eyes again. “Dump me on the sidewalk.”

Daryl’s lips twitched before he hopped up from the desk, made for his bow and slung it over his shoulder at the authority in Maggie's voice.

"Help me get him to the car, he's half out of it."

Daryl nodded, short and hard, as Maggie took hold of Paul’s arm and pulled it over her shoulder. Daryl did the same on his opposite side, the hand on his waist warm and comforting and rough all the same. By the time they had gotten him to their car, Maggie’s chest was heaving and Daryl was red in the face.

He let them lay him in the backseat, barely acknowledged the door slammed shut and the engine thrumming to life. His thigh ebbed with agony but it was distant. He could barely feel it, acknowledge it, and yet it was all that took up his mind.

He was unconscious before they left the block.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!
> 
> Firstly, I apologize for just how late this update is. Usually, I wouldn't dream of leaving them this late. Unfortunately, not unlike Jesus, my health hasn't been the best since I began writing this fic. But alas, here's the second chapter, finally. I hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> Second, apologies for any spelling or grammar errors I might have missed. 
> 
> (If I ever leave it this late to update, don't hesitate to spam my tumblr.)

When Paul came to, it was dark out. Rays filtered in through small, square windows that ran up the wall. He was in a bed, the sheets itchy on his bare skin. There was a small pull on the back of his hand, teetering just on the wrong side of uncomfortable.

And then there was the spinning in his head as soon as he sat up. He swallowed, ignored the feeling of being under water, suffocating, and looked around the room. Five other beds like his own held place on the opposite wall, four on his side. Each was bordered by small cabinets, and a drip stand. His own, he realised as he followed the bag, went into his hand. A machine also beeped along to his right.

“Careful.”

An elderly man sat by his bed, beard grey and wiry and lengthening his face. He smiled down at Paul, sympathetic. Paul’s eyes cast down to the crutches against the wall closest to himself. Huh.

“You’re on a course of antibiotics, lasting five days. I figured chances are that what you were injured with wasn’t clean and I didn’t want to risk any spreading of an infection." Thin teeth peeked out as he took in a breath. "How is the pain, Paul?”

Paul went red when he heard how deep his voice was. “I… don’t know. Feel funny.”

“I thought as much.” The man failed to hold down a chuckle as he shook his head. He passed Paul a white cup, Styrofoam, of water. He guzzled it down in one, quick gulp. “There’s also morphine mixed in there, probably why you’re feeling so odd. Do you mind if I check you over? Nothing too strenuous.”

Paul nodded, once, meek. “Sure. What happened?”

A light was shone in his left eye then the right. “My daughter brought you back, you were passed out long before you got here – blood loss, I think. Do you remember much about yesterday?”

Paul blinked away the colour staining his vision as soon as the light dissipated. Flashes of sharp silver spots were left in it's wake. _Yesterday_? Had he really been out of it for _that long_?

“I remember – they told me about this place. Stitched me up.”

The man nodded along, scribbling something down on a notepad. “That’s good, they’re good people. Capable. You're fortunate that she knew what to do, it seems you lost quite a bit of blood.”

He turned to let him check his temperature. “I’m glad she did.”

“I bet.” The man chuckled. He patted Paul’s shoulder in a gentle manner.  “Your vitals are fine, not that I expected any different.”

Paul’s lips lifted in the corners, lazy. He ran a palm over his beard. The older man stood and reached for his crutches.

“Thank you-" He trailed off.

“Hershel.”

Paul’s nod in reply was sluggish. “Thank you, Hershel.”

A genuine smile lit up Hershel’s face, creased eyes gentle as they looked on. “Get some rest, young man.”

+

Paul was in and out of consciousness over the next couple of days. Maggie had come to visit him on each of them. He wouldn’t talk much, couldn’t really, but her presence was a newfound and surprising comfort all the same.

She would check his recovery, talk with him, read, fill him in on the community he hadn’t had access to yet. When Maggie wasn’t there, Daryl or Hershel were. Hershel was much like Maggie, he would tend to the wound and make small talk. Daryl wasn’t a word enthusiast, he was much more content to listen to Paul’s ramblings and add on every now and then.

Daryl brought him his bag on his fourth day in the infirmary. He and Maggie, Daryl told him, had gone back to raid the clinic for whatever supplies were left over and found it outside. He was more than relieved to get his gloves back, at the least.

He couldn’t help the smile that arose. “Thank you. I forgot all about it.”

Daryl shrugged, stood at the end of the bed, chewed on his lip. “S’alright.” His own mouth tipped up. “Not sure you even knew your own name back there.”

“Fuck you, I totally did.”

“Right,” Daryl huffed out a laugh before he reigned it back, though a smile remained. “That why you passed out on us?”

“Mm.” Paul ran his fingertips over the leather and his next breath came much easier. “I really am thankful though. You didn’t have to do that.”

Daryl brought a thumb to his mouth. “Yeah, well, Maggie found it for you.”

Paul sighed. “I’ll thank her too, I’m sure I’ll be seeing her again.”

“Got a feelin’ she’s been coming here when she’s on watch.”

“If you’re expecting me to snitch to you, I won’t.” Paul hid a smirk. “I have supreme loyalty.”

The bowman scoffed. “Smartass.”

Daryl looked to the machine beeping away. He tapped at the end of the chipped bed frame in time with it, seeming unaware of his actions. Paul watched with creased eyes in mirth that hadn’t quite gone away.

His IV remained hung up. He was, under Hershel’s orders, to start oral antibiotics starting tomorrow for at least the remainder of the week.

“Do you.. do you have any idea when I can get out of here?“ He referenced his shape beneath thin, linen covers. “I feel disgusting.”

“Dunno, Hershel ain’t told you?”

Paul shot him a pointed look. “Do you really think I’d be asking you if he had?”

“Starting to regret saving your ass now.” His eyes flitted back to the machine, corners of his lips tugged up. “Michonne came in same way as you, she was up and about in a week.”

“...Michonne?”

Daryl appeared confused for a second. His eyes widened slightly and his ears flushed. “Uh, sorry. She got here a while ago, all bust up, shot in the leg. Rick ran into her on a run, she refused to let him carry her back. Walked all the way here, gave us her sword and passed out on the floor. She was up days after that. Tough son of a bitch she is."

“Oh.”

Paul figured there was much more to that, to her, than Daryl cared to reveal. It was obvious Michonne meant a great deal to the man, as much as Maggie, as Hershel, as their leader. His ribs constricted right around his lungs.

He hadn’t known many people he considered family, before or after. Not even friends, just relationships made out of necessity for their survival. Making it alone simply wasn’t worth making it at all. Though maybe that was what this group thrived from. Daryl had told him that when he’d first met Rick, he’d half wanted to kill him. The way he spoke of him now, the way Maggie and her father did, he knew just how highly all of them thought of the man.

Rick had built a family up from nothing but a common interest in staying alive with these people. Paul fought back a laugh riddled with bitterness. The most Gregory had constructed was a wall between himself and the community which had forced them to bond together. He ran a community by refusing to take part. Maybe that was where he’d failed and Rick continued to excel.

“She sounds like it.”

Daryl let out a breath. “I’ll ask Hershel later about gettin' out. Think he’s dealing with weevils.”

Paul choked out a laugh, groaning when the tenderness of his stomach pulled. “Right, well. Looks like it’s bed time.”

Daryl nodded, short. He stepped back from the bed pushing his hands together. Before he left the room, he turned to face Paul again, lip between his teeth. “Maggie’s off of watch soon.”

+

He sees the outside of the prison for the first time the following week.

He was practically clawing his hair out; matted and knotted way more than he’d like to admit or think about. Hershel had been more than happy with his recovery, flesh around his wound red and new and healing just fine. Maggie had helped him get clean, wheeled him out to the courtyard in a chair so rusty that it had them both wary each time it moved.

Residents’ eyes followed them, followed him, their curiosity clear as day. A grey, short-haired woman came to greet them at the gate that separated the courtyard to the field.

Paul watched Maggie’s face light up in welcome. “Mornin’, Carol.”

Carol smiled back, eyeing Paul’s frame. Unlike other residents, she wasn’t shy about it, met Paul’s gaze with her mouth still spread upwards. 

“Good morning." Her smile was too wide to be wholly fake. "Who's this?" 

Sitting in that chair, eaten away at by rot, he felt small. “Um, this is Paul. He's the guy me an' Daryl found.”

He blurted out a response before he could think otherwise. “It’s nice to finally put faces to the stories.”

“I’m sure.” Carol’s gaze shifted to Maggie, who shrugged. She looked back to Paul. “Will I be seeing the two of you at dinner later?”

Paul nodded, knowing better than to decline the suggestion. He’d been in her presence for less than a minute or two, but God was that woman intimidating. Maggie’s fingers clutched his shoulder.

“Sure thing, Carol. He just got out of the infirmary, I thought it’d be nice for him to see the farmin’ field.”

The older woman’s face eased and she pulled open the gate. She waved them off as Maggie pushed him down the gravel path.

After a second, Maggie spoke up. “So, do you?”

“I’m not really sure.” His eyes skimmed over the rich kaleidoscope of plants grouped together in the field, tomato stems up to the torsos of the men picking them. Saplings formed a line by the opposite fence. It was so bizarre, he thought, how similar and yet so different the prison was to Barrington. “It’s so nice out here.”

Maggie blew air through her lips. “I’m sure it is after a week festering in your own sweat.”

“Screw you.” She laughed out loud at that, cheeks dimpled and eyes bright.

“I guess it is somethin’ special. When we first got here, the prison was totally overrun. We slept in the field for two nights around a fire, eating pecans and squirrels.”

He snorted in response, watching a dog roll around the mostly bare crop beside the tomatoes, roots tangled in long fur. Daryl hadn’t been joking about the weevils, he figured.

They’d reached the stable now, bordered by two pastures and numerous small pens.

A black woman with dreadlocks pulled back by a red bandana was brushing down a cream-coloured horse in the pen. She greeted the two of them, dropping the brush to lean her weight against the fence.

“You’re the new boy.” It was a statement, teasing.

Paul pulled himself up by the fence, rested his weight on his uninjured leg. He put a hand out in the horse’s direction, fingertips grazing her muzzle.

“I guess so.”

Brown eyes flitted down to his thigh and when they looked back up, no pity was in them. He was thankful for that.

“Is it healing?”

Paul blinked, enjoying the feel of warmth under his palm, nodded. “Yeah, it’s manageable now, at least.”

“Daddy took him off the good stuff, he whined all the way down here.”

The woman shook her head at Maggie with a grin she couldn’t contain. “Oh, I remember that: coming off of meds after a week on them? Hell.” Her smile grew warm. “Go easy on him.”

Something clicked in his mind – Daryl _had_ mentioned a woman who come in on similar circumstances to him in the infirmary. “You’re Michonne?”

Her head tilted to the side a little, eyes squinted and her smile lingering. “Nothing gets past you, huh?"

“Guess not.”

Michonne’s fingers tapped on the wood. “Word of advice? Stick to the Advil for a while. You can take half as much, it’s just as effective.”

“Speaking from experience?”

Michonne’s smile spread, white teeth on show. Her amusement bled into her voice. “Exactly.”

Maggie stood back with a smile of her own, happy to give attention to Michonne’s horse as they spoke.

+

Paul never left the cell that Rick had assigned him until the sun went down. Cell block B, second-to-the-end of the top row.

He packed up food that Carol had left him, filled his water bottle to the tip, stocked his bag with enough antibiotics that he wouldn’t end up in the state he was when he came in. He’d pondered over taking any painkillers before deciding against it – the people living here needed them more than him. He could always search for more.

He didn’t belong here, not really, he'd just been kidding himself. It seemed too good to be true: secure walls, great people, a good leader. It teased and tempted him, incredibly, the garden of Eden. That’s what had lulled him into Barrington, that perfect serpent's song, he’d believed it was perfect because he didn’t want to see otherwise. He _couldn't_ see otherwise. Not at first.

This community was different but it was all the same. He couldn’t be part of it.

Nobody had seen him leave, everyone either eating or in their own quarters. He knew how to get in and out, respectively, of somewhere if he needed. He thrived off of it, one of his few qualities he had true confidence in.

“You got enough shit in there to make it?”

Paul froze in his tracks, hissed as the foot on his injured leg hit the ground. He’d made it to the outer ring of fences, eyed the red plastic tying metal together.                                                                             

“You usually follow people around in the dead of the night?”

He watched Daryl approach him, let him. The redneck’s hands were down at his sides, palms exposed, and he couldn’t help but think it was a move of peace, like someone would approach an animal.

“You first.” Daryl noticed his eyes on his fists and uncurled them, folded his arms over his chest. “You didn’t answer me.”

Paul exhaled. He dropped the bag to the floor. “I have enough. I didn’t take anything I didn’t need.”

“I ain’t begging you to stay.”

“So what the fuck are you doing out here then?” A roamer by the fence groaned, nimble fingers reaching into open space for the blood thrumming in their veins. Paul lowered his voice and when he spoke, he sounded weak, desperate as his voice cracked. “I shouldn’t _be_ here.”

Daryl’s stare made him uncomfortable and his palms automatically pressed together. “You’re a family, and this place? It’s too much for me. Too perfect. Sitting there in that room, that chair, pretending I’m part of it? It’s bullshit.”

Daryl stayed silent, instead opting to turn and watch the roamers straggling about in front of them, the only separation being the fence.

“I get it.” One of the dead tripped over a root, its innards spilt upon the ground, and yet it still pulled itself towards them. “You ain’t had this for a long time, probably ever. You just- you gotta get away from it.”

Bitterness seeped into his voice, unnatural and closing his throat up. “Sounds like you know that feeling.”

“Still feel like it sometimes, watchin’ Maggie and Glenn, or Rick and his critters.” Paul realised then that a crossbow lay on the man’s shoulder, the same as the day they’d met. “I’m sorry.”

That took Paul off guard and he found himself snorting. “For what?”

“Some shit must have happened to you, before or after. I know, it’s why you’re running from somethin' too good to be true, yeah?”

The air in Paul’s lungs left as soon as it entered, he imagined he would shift his legs about in the same manner that he’d been pressing fingertips into sweaty palms, if it were possible. He looked straight ahead. The walker had collapsed into the river.

“You don’t know shit about me.”

“Probably not.” Daryl kicked at one of the wooden poles holding up the fence. “I know you ain’t gonna make it out there, not alone, not at risk like this. Staying here, at least ‘til you’re healed? it’d be smart.”

“I’m not really the kind of guy who makes smart moves.” Paul bit into the flesh of his cheek, turning back to the bowman. He spoke in a hushed tone, as if not speaking aloud made it less of an admission, a quiet defeat. “Maybe you’re right but I-”

“Where are you gonna go, huh? You happy to hide in gas stations and dingy motels surviving on granola bars the rest of your life? ‘Cause that ain’t much of one, man.”

Silence fell on the night once again, at least between the two of them. The dead groaned on, searching, the livestock bustled under the moon’s influence, the river dragged over itself once more.

“If I stay,” He paused, turned to look Daryl directly in the eye, “If I did stay - do you promise not to follow me around? To not- I don't even know if I _want_ to stay."

"If you knew, you'da' been gone soon as I found you.

Paul flushed red, hidden in the dark. He repeated, quiet. "Do you promise?"

"Sure." Daryl chewed on a smile, small and fitting. “You want my pinky?”

“No. I do want you to help me back though.” He handed his bag to Daryl, who, after narrowing his eyes at the smaller man, threw it over his shoulder. “You said it yourself, I’m at risk.”

Daryl didn’t bother with a reply, only snorted as he lifted Paul’s arm over his shoulders.

They reached the cellblock together a lot quicker than he’d gotten out of it. Only Hershel was outside of his cell, lampshade alight on the table beside him. He was seated, flicking through one of the many books on the shelf pressed to the wall.

Daryl helped Paul up the steps before greeting Hershel. The redneck brought a thumb to his mouth as Paul hovered. Hershel set his book down.

“You can leave,” The reassurance, the _I'm not leaving_ , went unspoken between the two of them.

"Hershel can babysit me.”

Hershel chuckled, looked to Daryl. “Get to bed Dixon, Heaven knows you need it.”

Daryl looked back to Paul with narrowed eyes. The younger man stuck out his hand. "Pinky promise."

The redneck rolled his eyes before he left. Hershel and Paul watched the archer trudge down the steps, remained silent until his cell door clanged shut. Hershel turned to look back to Paul. “You know, I’m still convinced he’d sleep on the windowsill if he could.”

A smile of exhaustion came easy and close-mouthed to Paul’s lips. The older man held a lazy smile at his own comment, quiet in the night. “You should get yourself to sleep, too.” He added with a chuckle. “Doctor’s orders.”

Paul found his blinks to last longer with each one he took, lips drooping over his pupils. “You’re not even gonna give me any of the good stuff?”

“Not sure you need it, you’re already far gone.”

Paul nodded, pulled himself up from where he leant against the railing and began to limp away. As he did, he felt himself warm. Not because of the closed quarters, not because of the light or the Georgia heat, his skin was cool as ever. He wasn’t happy, no, but content, he realised. He wasn’t sure when it’d first been fashioned, probably somewhere between the walkers and the courtyard.

“It’s good to see you back, Paul.”

He swallowed, continued to pull himself down the row, to the cell second-to-the-end, smile refusing to leave his face.


	3. Chapter 3

Of all of the things to survive the end of the world, Paul hadn’t expected cereal to be one of them. Cockroaches and Nokia phones, a couple of his bunker-obsessed ex-boyfriends maybe.Though, in all honesty, he hadn’t expected any kind of civilization to last either. Who in their right mind would? Barrington had been his only indication that any kind of humane life existed, that daily routine and farming and trade could be possible while the Dead walked on right outside.

Then there was the road. Being alone among groups of people had been something else entirely. Terrifying, exhausting - ending the day unaware of if you were to have a next. Measuring up all of the supplies he’d found during the day, learning to ration half a can of peaches over several days without passing out first.

And the communities he’d barely dropped into, a delving limb in hot water, the members he’d ran into, not unlike Maggie and Daryl. He would leave them all like he tried that night. He would size it up, take what he needed, leave. He supposed, thinking back now, that instinct would always be there for him to swallow down.

The pantry was stocked with several kinds of cereal to his delight, with bread and cookies and biscuits labelled in Carol’s handwriting. He’d been happy to fulfill a craving for cinnamon toast crunch he didn’t know he held onto for years.

Oddly, they were always his favorite treat growing up back at the group home. Of the limited breakfast options on an ever more limited budget, they were always sure to be in stock. Them, and granola. More than once, Paul would find himself trading with the other boys in his room to ensure he’d get his hands on a new box, usually in exchange for less sugary alternatives.

He closed his mouth around a spoonful of the treat, tilting his head up in greeting when Michonne sat down at the other end of the table, buttered toast in hand. She settled down a sword against the table, the handle ingrained in spirals that crossed together at the end to make a chain. Her hand hadn’t lifted from it.

“Morning.”

“Um.” He hummed around the spoonful of sickly sweet goodness before swallowing. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m going out on a run today.” She pursed her lips. “Sasha came across a shopping complex a dozen or so miles out last week so we’re taking Maggie and Tyreese to check it out, sounds promising. Maggie wanted me to tell you.”

“Okay, what are you asking?”

She smiled a little, despite herself. “I promised Carol that I’d clean up the library with Maggie and a few others. Obviously, we can’t now, and you have nothing but time on your hands.”

His brows pulled together. “What’s wrong with the library?”

“Nothing much, the books are out of order, the room’s a little run down. Nobody’s been in there.” Michonne bit into the toast, the right side of burnt. “Carol was thinking about teaching the kids in there in the future. I thought it was a great idea.”

“It is.” Paul set the spoon down in the bowl, all that was left was a soggy concoction of wheat, cinnamon and milk. He cringed at the wasted meal. He found himself intrigued, pushing the spoon through and around the sludge that remained in the bowl.  “What am I getting out of it?”

Michonne’s lips spread up in a smile as sweet as it was exaggerated. “My eternal thanks and respect from Carol?”

Paul didn’t respond, hummed as he scratched at his beard with his index finger, considering his options. He was still stuck limping around with a cane, amped up on Advil and antibiotics. He’d spent the majority of yesterday sleeping in his cell. As it turned out, exercising while on pain medication only served to exhaust you. He would have felt guilty for it but Hershel had reassured it was probably best.

His leg had been hurting like hell since he first woke to the sun rising and the sky a blend of soft pastels that had him yearning for a camera. It’d almost had him forgetting about the pain. However, as soon as he made his way out to the courtyard, already dotted with several people and smelling distinctly of cooked meat, there was a firm reminder that he hadn’t taken any meds. Beth had taken one look at him and helped him inside. Embarrassed heat spread up his chest as she had.

Maybe having something to do would keep his thoughts and pain at bay.

Michonne set the toast down on the surface. “Fine… I’ll get you any stale chocolate bar of your choice.” She shrugged. “Within reason, of course.”

“Of course.” Paul grinned. “Snickers. As many as you can find.”

She squinted across at him. “Half.”

Paul accepted the handshake Michonne offered. “Deal.”

“Fun doing business with you, new boy.”

He grinned, bright, an amused hum leaving his lips. Paul hesitated before a thought occurred to him.

“Hey, you mentioned that nobody has been in the library. How come?”

Whatever Michonne was expecting in response, it wasn’t that. Her chin stuck out in recognition, before ducking into her chest as she sighed. She looked back up at him, smile small. “There was a bug, Hershel figured it was a kind of flu virus. So many of us got sick: Glenn, Sasha, Hershel himself.” She forced out a breath. “A lot of us didn’t make it. They were quarantined. The library was part of that area, nobody has really wanted to go back down there.”

“Shit.” His hand twitched at his side, wanting to comfort her before thinking better. She didn’t need it. “I’m sorry, Michonne.”

She reached across the table and squeezed his forearm, eyes not leaving his face. “Don’t be. We made it through, we’re building something better, a community, a future. You’re a part of that now.”

His eyes fell, the room suddenly too warm, uncomfortably so. His cheeks reddened by her words, by the gentle firmness of her grip. With the loss of it as she stood, slow and graceful, came an easy upturn of his mouth. She tucked the sword over her shoulder with one hand and took his bowl in the other. “I’ll ask around, see who’d be up to helping you.”

“Sure thing,” And he added, a sudden blurt from his mouth, “Don’t forget that chocolate.”

Her head fell back as she laughed, a melodious sound, eyelids closed in welcome creases. “Oh, I won’t.”

* * *

Swallowing down a whine, Paul stepped back and sat as blood rushed to his leg, the pain gnawing at his muscle as it pulsated something awful and heavy. He squeezed his eyes shut, focused on digging his fingernails into the wood beneath him.

“You alright, buddy?”

He looked up to Glenn paused in his ministration, holding _Of Mice and Men_ above Daryl, who was on the floor sorting through the lowest shelves. Daryl looked up too, a pile of titles up to his breastbone. They’d agreed – or Glenn and Paul had decided – that because Paul couldn’t get down there and Glenn was nimble enough to climb to the top, that Daryl would be left to the books hardest to reach down to.

His breath came much too quick when he spoke and he forced a deep breath through his nose. “I’m good, stood up too quick.”

Glenn nodded, satisfied with his answer.

The three of them had been doing relatively well and had been in the library for several hours at the least, if the stuffy heat they were breathing and the blearing sun that singed at their cool skin through the windows was anything to go by. As it turned out, Michonne had definitely understated the state that the library was in. ‘ _A little’_ run down, his ass.

Books had littered the floor, most ripped apart with only the spine and covers intact, several of the shelves had long since collapsed into themselves, eaten away at by rot and unable to hold any weight of the books. Several of the dead, long since taken care of, were hidden behind shelves. The stench alone had Glenn heaving for ten minutes while Daryl tried his hardest not to laugh.

The pain had quickly fell to an aching throb just on the wrong side of irritating.

Glenn pulled two books from the top of Daryl’s stack, one hardback and a paperback without the title page, and breathed out a chuckle. “How many versions of _1984_ does one prison need?

“How ironic.”

Daryl snorted, squeezing in _Sense and Sensibility_ next to _The Secret Garden,_ they’d also brought in Hershel’s book collection, each marked with sharpie. “What’re the chances of that shit survivin’?”

Paul struck him with raised eyebrows. “What the hell? I’m sorry, did you just call the classic that is _1984_ shit?”

“You know, I knew you’d like that stuff.” Daryl shrugged a shoulder, eyes bright with newfound mischief. Glenn mouthed ‘Stuff?’ in Paul’s direction. “Orwell is boring, 1984 is boring.”

Paul, despite himself, felt his eyes narrow at the archer. “What’s wrong with Orwell?”

Glenn tapped at a book beside him. “Oh, man.”

“He just hates everything except cryin’ about how much he hates everything and callin’ it satire. Just bores me.”

Paul grinned, head tilted. “New York Times would care to disagree.”

Daryl didn’t quite smile but by no means was he frowning either. “Bet your favorite is _Animal Farm_.”

Paul, at the height of maturity, stuck out his tongue at the man. “Four legs good, two legs bad.”

Daryl chuckled - it was quiet, hardly there, and it stopped altogether when he realized Glenn was staring at him. He cleared his throat, thumb brushing over T.J Eckleburg’s rounded, yellow eyes. Paul tucked stray hair that had fell out of his bun behind his ear, eyes trained on a murky green stain on the carpet.

Glenn blinked, striking at the silence in the room. “I always liked that one, read it for English class in Junior year.”

“No way, me too, though it was senior year for me, I think. I’m pretty sure I read it all in one night.” Paul flushed a little. “I went to the library that same week and.. I may have borrowed all of the Orwell books I could find.”

“The question is, did you take them back?”

“Do you want me to say that I did or do you want the truth?”

He caught Glenn’s laugh. The Korean’s face remained bright as he stammered. “I-I stole a car once. It was after, not by much, I’d just met Rick. It was so fucking dope.”

“Uh, and then it turned out he led a bunch of walkers to our camp ‘cause his dumb ass let the alarm go off all the way up there.”

Glenn’s cheeks reddened further and Paul suspected it was no longer solely down to excitement. “Unintentionally, Daryl. Key point to your story there, that you, like, totally left out.”

“Sorry.” Daryl’s voice suggested he thought otherwise, his eyes as tired as they were bright.

Glenn kicked at his side with a grin.

* * *

 

It’s a little later in the day, after they’d left the library and Glenn had bid goodbye to be on gate watch, when Daryl hands him a copy of _The Book Thief_. He pushed it into Paul’s hand, quick and abrupt, as if he was about to take it right back again. Paul took it, his other hand around a half-eaten piece of melon.

The sun was still burning away above them, warming at the back of Paul’s neck, though the air was kind and cool on their skin still. Daryl chewed at the hangnail of his thumb, his eyes flitting from Paul to the ground and back again.

It was an evidently loved book, worn by fingertips that’d explored its story numerous times. He opened it to a random page; doodles decorated the empty space of the columns. Paul ran a finger over the words that filled page one-hundred-and-six, faint earthy scent filling his nostrils. His mind went to the forest, not the one just outside and foreign to him, but the one with tracks that held permanent imprints of his feet as a child, of flowing water and birdsong and being _alive_. Though, now his footprints had probably been stomped out ten times over, flooded and filled, buried beneath somebody’s remains.

 _I am haunted by humans_. The quote was underlined with thick, black ink, scratchy writing had been filled in to the side of it. “I – um - you’re sure you want to give me this?”

Daryl bit into the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. You like that shit right?”

Paul nodded abruptly, stunned. Daryl shrugged. “Exactly, so you’re welcome.”

Paul’s mouth turned up, front teeth pressing into pink flesh. His left cheek dimpled a little, an inch from his mouth, and he turned his face to the redneck again. “Thank you, then.”

Daryl retorted, quietly, and Paul assumed it wasn’t meant for his ears. “Whole lot better than Orwell.”

“I think you’re gonna end up giving him a chance.”

“Why you think that?”

“I spotted Down and Out in Paris in there too. It’s actually my favorite of his that I’ve read. It’s cynical without meaning to be.” He tapped at the book open on his lap, eyes bright and voice teasing. “Something tells me you’d like it a lot.”

That granted him a tight-lipped smile before Daryl cleared his throat. His jaw tilted up, blue eyes trained on the field in front of them. Paul followed his gaze to a group of children playing in the apple trees as Karen failed to chase them away. He could hear them from where he sat, book in hand.

“You know, I actually-”

“I gotta go.” Daryl stood up, barely visible ears red. He didn’t give Paul a chance to protest, already walking away by the time Paul had pulled himself up from the chair.

“Hey, what-”

Daryl paused and walked back to him, any trace of calm long since erased. “Look, asshole, I don’t know why the hell you think we're buddies all of a sudden, but I told you I gotta go.”

Paul made a grab for his arm and Daryl yanked it away as though it singed through his skin, his entire body following. The blood thrumming in Paul’s veins spiked. “Why?”

At Daryl’s confused glare, eyes narrowed, Paul shocked himself when his words were spat out like venom, like fire. “Why the hell did you bring me back here?”

“I felt sorry for you, you got nothin’. Nobody.” His eyes didn’t drop from Paul’s. “We ain’t best fuckin’ pals, do you think I give a shit about you or your damn books?”

The words hit like a body to water and he found his chest tightening as his heart burned deep.

“Okay, you gotta go.” Paul swallowed down a putrid knot making it's way up his throat, tied and making it hard to breathe. His eyes seared, rigid and set on the older man. Moisture lined his waterline as he spoke again, stronger than before. “Let me save you the trouble.”

He gritted his teeth together as he limped away, the pain a welcomed cycle to distract from the stinging in his eyes and chest, eyes set forward. He soon got to the plastic tying the fence together. This time, nobody was there to stop him leaving.

He couldn’t help but wonder if they would care, if anyone would, if he left their community. Would Maggie, in all of her bright eyes and kind words? Would Michonne, Glenn, Hershel, Carol. Would Daryl?

He chuckled to himself. He already knew the answer to that question, rhetorical and all.

Paul wasn’t sure if he even wanted to go back, even less sure if he wanted to leave. He’d done it before without difficulty, dropped an entire community of friends and neighbors, pushed their existence in his life to the back of his mind. Focused purely on survival. He could do it again, he knew that. But that didn’t explain why he felt so fucking guilty with each step he took in the opposite direction.

He walked, or hobbled, until he was deep inside the heart of the forest and the prison was out of sight. The lowering sun teased the trees and flowers with warmth, tickled the dark shadows of the branches and the stalks and the river bed. Nature called, the chirps and the buzzes and distinct life only echoed where the light couldn’t quite reach. A rainy, dismal summer had bled over, at last, and with its end came the promise of a more unstable fall.

He found a polished rock where the river widened, the surface smooth and inviting. He made his way over, the ground beneath rich in healthy overgrowth. His boot grazed a daisy that he felt more than tempted to pluck from the earth.

The sound, the smell, the beauty of the surrounding isolation ran over him in waves of calm. He found it that much easier to breathe out here.

Paul pulled out his knife that’d been sheathed at his hip since the moment he’d woken in that cell, settled it down on the top of the rock. He sat back and crossed one of his legs beneath him. He set _The Book Thief_ down beside the blade, eyes cast over the two figures on the titular page, the face of innocence hand-in-hand with death itself.

He looked back across the water, one of the dead was half stuck beneath a log that had succumbed to moss. Grass grew from the roamer's ribs. It wasn’t difficult to close his eyes and lay back with his hand tight on the blade handle, only focused on the birdsong and the water, his mind on the girl and the reaper.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Apologies in advance: I am not a medical professional, I don't know how to pick locks and it probably isn't a good idea to walk after ripping out stitches.
> 
> Don't try this at home.)

" _W_ _hen death captures me,” the boy vowed, “He will feel my fist on his face.”_

Paul is three-hundred and eighty five pages into _The Book Thief_  when he hears a rustling in the overgrowth. The birdsong halted. He looked up to a flock flying over his head. He settled the book down beside him again and pulled himself up, blade already in hand.

As he made his way across the ground, the blades of grass voicing a quiet crunch beneath the pressure of his feet, he heard the familiar, gurgling groan of the dead grow louder. He pulled the blade up to his chest, the end pointed in the direction of the roamer. Two came into view.

The sickening ease of his blade going into the soft, decayed skull beneath splitting, putrid flesh made his stomach turn. He made his way to the other one, hair half-ripped from it's head and it's head at an angle. It's neck was broken, he realised.

He stepped forward but something prevented him from moving. He pulled at his leg, ignorant to the pain that shot up it. He grit his teeth together, willed himself to bury it deep and continue. He sheathed the knife, more than aware of the roamer approaching, and gripped his leg with his hands. He pulled again.

With a sickening dread, he realised that his foot was trapped under a root.

“Shit.”

His heart pounded in his chest, beat against his ribs like wood on a drum skin. He gripped at the knife again but the walker beat him to it. He fell back, air knocked from his lungs, he didn’t have time to think about it. He’d lost his knife. He pulled himself back, hand searching the ground for anything to disable the walker.

Teeth snapped above him, the only thing stopping them piercing his flesh being his left hand against its chest. Skin ripped because of the pressure onto his shirt. He cried out. He gave a kick, as strong as he could muster, directly into its middle. The roamer stumbled back for a moment before approaching again.

His leg screamed as he tried to stand, to move, to do anything other than give in and let himself die. He held the roamer back by his forearm against its neck.

He was about ready to give up, his limbs aching and his heart thumping away when the roamer stilled. He pushed the body off of him with a groan, forcing himself up. An arrowhead stuck out of the forehead of the walker.

Breathless, he heaved out, “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t stalk me.”

It wasn’t a question because he wasn’t expecting an answer.

Deep down, he’d wanted Daryl to follow after him the moment he’d turned his back to him in the courtyard. He wanted people, he wanted uncontrollable laughter hidden behind his palm, wanted singing in the passenger seat and movie nights and sleeping with both eyes shut. He wanted more than surviving, he wanted living.

This group gave him one, good, aching taste of that.

He forced in uneven breaths, his chest burning with exertion. The pulse in his leg buzzed along with each one he took.

Daryl pulled his arrow out of the back of the head, flicking darkened blood from it.

“You trying to get yourself fucking killed?”

He wheezed out a heavy breath and let out a chuckle, disbelieving. He willed himself to stay calm, looking up at Daryl directly. He pulled a faded rag out of his back pocket. “I don’t need to explain myself.”

“You don’t.” He put the cleaned arrow into the backpack sat at his feet. “But wasting Hershel’s resources - shit people died to get back here - for you to get yourself bit? It’s-”

“Daryl, please. I really don’t want to fight with you.” He struggled to suck in another breath. ”I just wanted - I _needed_ to be out here.”

Daryl’s eyes were focused on his leg and it was obvious to Paul that Daryl hadn’t acknowledged what he’d said. He followed Daryl’s gaze, mouth twisted and grim.

His beige pant leg was full of rich crimson, journeying up the material. It was travelling slow. At least there was that.

“Oh.” That was all that he could manage, heart in his mouth and concrete in his stomach. “I wonder how that got there.”

Daryl crouched down beside him in less than a blink, throwing his bow on the ground behind them. He ripped a tear at the pant leg with surprising urgency, lips pressed together in a thin, white line.

He searched Daryl’s face for any kind of reaction, for shock, for surprise, anger, anything. Anything that’d give him hope. Or despair. Anything.

Daryl looked up at him with wide eyes. His lips parted, a small breath pulled in and breathed out. Paul couldn’t even work up the strength to ask. Then Daryl shook his head, small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He directed Paul to his leg with a gentle grip on his wrist. He was almost too afraid to look, to touch, to feel.

“It’s fine.”

Blood ebbed out of the wound, stitches dark. No trace of their original white coloring remained. But there was no bite. When he pressed down on his thigh, the skin was quick to flush back to it's normal colour.

Paul pulled his hand back from the area with widened eyes and hot tears left a smear down flushed cheeks. His hands were shaking as he looked away. He didn’t know if it was in relief, in shock, or a little bit of both and every emotion in between.

Daryl poured water over the wound, face wound up in what Paul could assume was sympathy. He screwed the bottle top back on and pressed it into Paul’s waiting hands. The younger man wiped at his face by pressing it into his shoulder.

After a moment, he lifted Paul’s thigh about an inch or so from the ground, wincing around a muttered apology at Paul’s hiss of pain. He pulled out a second rag and tied it around Paul’s leg, twice over, before knotting it together.

“It really don’t look that bad, could be a lot worse.” He dipped his head to meet Paul’s unfocused gaze. “We’re maybe half a mile out, you’ll be just fine.”

Paul’s mind was elsewhere. “I didn’t realise I’d gotten this far.”

Flowers grew on the roamer across the river. He hadn’t noticed before, the rich array of colour blooming from the skull, too busy with his head in the pages. Now that the adrenaline had worn away, his muscles ached with exertion. He was also really fucking  _cold_.

The sun licked at the horizon, the thick clouds above their heads painted a deep red. The moon peeked out through a strip of clear sky.

“I get it - what you said before. The need to be out here sometimes. If I don’t come out, even just to hunt a buck, can practically feel myself goin’ stir crazy.”

Paul had his finger wrapped around a loose thread on his shirt, watching his blood rush to the surface when he relieved pressure. He didn’t know if Daryl was making conversation to calm him, given that Daryl didn’t seem like the guy who dealt out hugs of support. Though, he didn’t seem the kind to make conversation for the fun of it either.

He hummed, lips pressed together in what looked more like a grimace than a smile. Though, given that he could feel the heat of his own blood smearing his leg, he felt it was justified.

Daryl, after a minute of silence, letting the rush of the river fill the air, spoke again. “I’m sorry, for how I was back there.”

Paul chewed on his lip, skin warm despite the cooling air. Daryl continued, quiet. Paul could barely hear him over the groans across the water, the birds and the lap of soft waves against rocks. “I didn’t mean to - I’m just real sorry, it weren’t right. I was being a dick.”

“You were.” He bit down into a smile, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth. “It’s alright. I pushed you too hard, you were uncomfortable.”

“Nah, you didn’t. It weren’t good of me.” Daryl breathed out, stood on uncertain, wobbling legs. He held out a hand. Paul stood with his help, using only his good leg. “You need to get back, c’mon.”

“Daryl, hold up.” He pointed back behind them. “Your book.”

Blue eyes searched his face this time. They follow the lines of his face to the jut of his jaw, to sharp collarbones and down a slender arm to the point of his finger.

Daryl folded over the corner of the book. He looked back over to Paul, evening light teasing his face.

Daryl made his way back to him and bent down to pull Paul’s arm over his shoulder, bow on the other. His own circled Paul’s waist, rough hand surprisingly delicate and light in it's grip on the smaller man.

+

“This is becoming a pattern that I really am not fond of.”

Daryl blinked, looked up with amusement dancing on his lips and creased eyelids. He pressed the cloth in his palm to Paul’s skin and dragged. With each stroke of the cloth, more blood was erased.

“This is gonna sting,” Daryl warns, folding the cloth over and pressing it directly to the affected area.

The minute that the alcohol made contact with the wound, Paul let out a hiss, uncomfortable on the comforter. He groped at the scratchy material beneath. The rough rasp of the alcohol on his skin stung, and then some, but he found it left a cool, distant pressure in its wake, soothing away the ache from before. He unclenched fists and clenched them right back up, flushing when his palms made contact with the air and he realised they were damp with perspiration.

He braved a look back down.

The wounded area was much smaller than he’d even envisioned, maybe an inch wide now, nothing more than an angry gash. Daryl had removed the bloodied stitches and readily replaced them with gauze. Now that the dried blood had been ridden of and his skin cleaned, he could breathe a whole lot better.

“Told you it weren’t that bad.”

“Mm,” Paul hummed away. His eyes darted from the cut back up to Daryl. He fixated on a spot on his shirt that was darker than the off-grey material. He paled at the realisation - it was his blood.

He couldn’t register anything but the blood drying on his hands, over cuts and aching knuckles and scratches. He couldn’t see his veins, the blood thick and filling up the gaps of each and every wrinkle of skin. It got streaky up past his wrists, split into flakes.

“I got - shit, I got blood on you.” His voice came out quiet.

And Daryl was there. He took Paul’s hand and began to clean at it. The white cloth came up red.

He looked away, the dread like liquid tar filling his chest right up. He found himself watching Daryl at work, his eyebrows seamed together above his nose, pointed and round. He chewed at his cheek.

Paul wondered if he had any experience in medicine before. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d be a doctor. Though, he supposed, he had no idea who anybody was before. Did it even matter now? Of course, the skills from it mattered. Like Hershel being a veterinarian and Rick being a Deputy meaning they could fulfill vital roles that the community needed. That couldn’t be denied. He wasn’t sure what Daryl had been.

Someone good at tracking, good under pressure and ready to get shit done. He was a survivor made for this, that much was possible.

Journeying Daryl’s face, of the shadows cast over his cheeks by lashes each time he blinked and the sunken lines at the corner of his mouth, he found he quickly forgot about the blood. He was so still, calm, concentrated purely on his actions and nothing else. 

“What happened to your head?”

Daryl didn’t look up at first, scrubbing at a patch of thick maroon on his palm. He paused, tongue between bared teeth, and faced Paul beneath feathery hair. His eyes were calculating and it almost made Paul look away.

His mouth fell open as he reached out gingerly with a hand rich and dripping in alcohol. Daryl’s head dipped to the side, allowing him to look. He continued cleaning at Paul’s hand with shaking fingertips. It made Paul feel like a child with an animal, untamed. His finger made contact with raised tissue beneath puckered, white skin and Daryl jerked back.

“Sorry,” His voice felt too loud in the cell as he repeated. “What happened?”

Daryl squeezed the stained cloth and dropped it into the kidney dish he’d substituted as a basin, eyes low.

“Someone in the group right at the start, she was practicing shooting - pistols, snipers. I came outta the woods with blood all over me, arrow in my side. Apparently she had bad aim.” He snorted at the memory. “I had fuckin’ walker ears around my neck. I was hallucinating somethin’ crazy. I argued with my dead brother.”

Paul’s eyes dropped. He followed the scar into thick hair and Daryl’s eyelids flitted. He dropped his hand into his lap again. “Why the ears?”

“No clue, guess that’s what impalin’ yourself on an arrow does to you.” He pushed a clean towel into Paul’s grip. “You’re done. You want a sticker?”

It took Paul a moment to realise the older man had made a joke. An actual, attempt at being funny, kind of joke. “You’re really bad at comforting the weak and vulnerable.”

“You’re real bad at staying out of harm’s way.”

Paul gave a pointed look at the scar on Daryl’s head. Daryl’s lip twitched in response and he picked at the hangnail on his thumb with his other hand, eyes focused on the comforter beside Paul.

“Thank you, though.”

Daryl nodded, surprise clear on his face at the sudden, presented gratitude. “Welcome.”

Paul’s finger flitted over the book cover, his eyes bright and face set in ease. His lips were broad in a smile that he found came easy.

“You mind if I stay in here a little while?”

Daryl’s mouth fell open slightly as he looked up at him. He shrugged with his bottom lip between his teeth. “Uh.”

Paul took that as a yes as good as any. He settled back against the wall with a groan, pulled the pillows from the end of the bed and set them behind his back. Both were decorated in a pattern of faded floral and it had Paul fighting back a laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

Daryl stepped back and sat at a deck chair a metre or so away from him, his palms pressed together on top of his knees, his eyes narrowed without the bite.

“I just didn’t take you for a guy who loves floral.”

Daryl’s cheeks heated. “They’re real comfy.”

“Hey,” Paul held his hands up, palms open, “I’m not judging. Flowers are my shit.”

Daryl snorted, chin tucked into his shoulder as he tried to hide his amusement. He failed. Paul relaxed on the comforter, book open in his lap, the air light and his back, as Daryl proclaimed, against really comfortable pillows.

+

Paul eventually finishes _The Book Thief_ on an afternoon of angry thunder and hammering rain.

Maggie and Daryl flanked him on each side at the table, deep in their own conversation. Something about Glenn, he mused with his face hidden behind printed words and empty space.

“You told me that Max died!”

Daryl finished off the last of three Hershey bars he’d been nursing since the trio had sat down. “I.. only told you he was pretty much dead when he was marched away.”

He bit down into a half-eaten Snickers with narrowed eyes at the archer. “Oh, fuck you, that’s the same thing.”

Maggie laughed into her hot chocolate - instant, full of sugar and canned whipcream salvaged from the run. She grimaced at the initial overpowering of powdered milk on her tongue. Daryl offered a Hershey’s kiss that she didn’t have to think about accepting, pushing it into her mouth with a pleased hum.

“Oh, man. Every single time I watched that movie I would just.. break into tears.”

Daryl flicked at her ear, eyes hard and narrowed in her direction though his smile betrayed him. Maggie shook her head, held up her hands. “Every time I read that book. Read. Book. Got it, wouldn’t want to offend you nerds.”

Paul was about ready to make a clever remark back when Rick stormed into the cafeteria, eyes unfocused, unraveled. His arms dripped with blood, too dark to be human. His face was sunken in, eyes skittish. Paul’s heart dropped into his stomach; not once had he seen their leader so out of control, at a loss.

Daryl stood, hand already ready on the gun at his belt. Rick found the archer and he watched the ringleader physically ease. When Rick aired the issue, even the weather seemed to silence. Heavy clouds cast deeper shadows on their figures.

“Fence by the main tower’s down, storm’s attractin’ a herd of walkers. I ain’t sure how big but there’s at least two dozen, maybe more.

Maggie cast a worried glance at Paul. She sucked in a breath, squeezing her eyes shut. When they opened, she nodded to herself and breathed out.

The two of them stood too, Maggie finding his hand as if on autopilot. She pushed a gun into his palm without a word or a glance, focused on her leader’s words as much as the rest of the room. Time stood still and spinned on it's head as Daryl spoke in hushed tones, trying to break into Rick’s resolve.

“I don’t- Carl is missing. He was out there with me, said he was gonna come back here to get help and he’s gone.”

After that, the group, this family, they ran on a combined narrative that had been set for them without so much as a spoken word. Sasha, Tyreese and Glenn followed Daryl and Rick outside with their respective weapons of choice. Hershel and Beth made their way to Maggie, the three of them exchanging in holds with so much meaning that Paul had to look away.

With that, Carol found him. Her ash-grey hair almost looked black between flashes of light. Her eyes were stone. “You’re going to help me find Carl.”

Paul nodded and he swallowed down his nerves. His foot came down on a scrunched up triangle of foil as Maggie came back to the pair. She slipped her hand into Paul’s. “I think we should check the main cell blocks first, rally more people outside if need be.”

“The two of you go ahead, we can cover more ground that way. I’m gonna check outside, he loves those pigs.” Carol made her way in front of them, knife up at her chest and facing out.

Maggie called out the older woman’s name. Her eyes, the colour of a plant of new birth were wet and lined with urgency. “Stop just a second.”

Carol paused, looked back expectantly, and Paul thanked his lucky stars. She didn’t sheath the knife, only lowered it to her side.

“Be careful.” Maggie ran a hand down Carol’s forearm with a short smile. “We meet back in cell block A in twenty minutes.”

Carol nodded to the both of them and her stern, determined gaze warmed Paul’s veins despite the bitter air that came with the storm. When she left, it came in at full throttle. Each square of glass that lined the outer wall of the cell block was clouded up, dotted in thick droplets that ran down to the next.

“Do you think he’s okay? That the others will be?”

The fingers that were intertwined with Paul’s squeezed that much tighter. She was nervous, subtly so, but holding it together well. He admired that. “Of course, Carl’s not stupid. And they’re all gonna fall over themselves on the way to the washroom. You know that.”

“Yeah, I do.” Every step they took in echoed silence she seemed to regain herself more. Her jaw held right up, eyes no longer worried but sure, and she looked at Paul for reassurance much less. “Thank you.”

The main cell block was essentially empty, the second too. They searched each cell, office, closet. And nothing.

They quickly made it to the hallway that cordoned off the library from a third, less inhibited cell block.. An office sat at the end of the darkened hall, beckoning and inviting. Light shot out from the obscure glass window of the door.

Maggie paused. “You hear that?”

Paul looked from the door to Maggie and back again. He stilled completely, suddenly aware of his own breathing, of Maggie’s, of his arm brushing the soft material of his shirt and the rain outside. Beyond that, he could hear a cry. A wail, even.

"Yeah."

Maggie stormed forward with her fingers tight around his. The wind outside howled and it wasn’t hard to imagine it pushing at and weakening the wall with every second they took. Maggie released Paul from her grip and made contact with the door. She wracked at the door handle, the bronze plating flaking. Paul tasted copper on his tongue.

The door gave a groan but didn’t budge. Maggie’s nostrils flared. She pulled at it harder than before, her shoulder cold against the glass.

“It’s not- it won’t budge!”

Paul took her hand this time, and he wasn’t sure which of them needed it most. She let him pull her away. She leant against the wall, the cries now closer drowning out her heaving breaths.

Paul scoured the floor of scrap paper and empty shells. He groaned under his breath, crouched down to search. He pushed at a pile of dirtied files of paper fixed together by paper clips. Blood marked several in thick dots, too dark to be fresh. And yet, when his fingers touched it, they came back wet.

He pulled out one of the clips and held it up to the light coming from the high window with narrowed eyes. He bent out one end straight, the other jagged and twisted three times over.

Maggie watched in awe as he worked at the keyhole. Paul’s face was scrunched up in focus, tongue teasing his bottom lip with moisture. He switched the clip around, pressing the jagged end into the lock. The door gave a click and gave way with a groan.

“Fuck.”

Judith lay on her back at the desk far into the room. She was red in the face, tears soaking the collar of her shirt. It was decorated with a cartoon lion, bright pink and white in colour.

Carl wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Paul made his way to Judith and picked her up, hesitant. He ran his palm in a circle on her small back that wracked with her sobs. He shushed, bouncing her in his hold. Her crying didn’t stop at all.

“Why the hell was the door locked?”

Maggie checked each nook and cranny of the room with her gun cocked and following her direct line of sight. Her knuckles were white where she gripped.

“He’s a kid. He needed to keep her safe, maybe he felt this was the best way incase shit went down.”

Maggie nodded, her hum drowned out by Judith. “Look - I’m gonna try to find him. There isn’t much left ground to cover, you stay with Judy.”

Paul nodded and rocked the little body in his arms again. Maggie shut the door as she left, or for better word, pulled it back behind her. It swung on rusted hinges before eventually stilling. Judith watched over his shoulder with unfocused, wet eyes.

Thunder rumbled once again, deep and guttural in the sky. Judith jumped, pressing indents into his exposed neckline with chubby fingers. He continued to rub her back.

“I know, I know. It’s not nice at all, is it sweetheart?”

Her wail fell to a weak whimper as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Paul’s chest burned as he hummed into her ear, attempting to calm her.

“I get it.” He looked from her to the singular window at the top of the wall. “God, I hate them too, even now. You know how many times I just.. hid under my bed even as a grown up, hm?"

He chuckled to himself. "It’s a good thing that you can’t understand me, I wouldn’t want you ruining my tough guy rep I’ve got going.”

She watched him with mild interest and reached a hand up to his beard. A smile split his face in relief as she tugged at the hairs, her blue eyes bright in curiousity. He began to pat her back instead.

Another rumble of thunder and she began to whimper again. He shushed her as he moved around the short space, rocking her as he went. He began to hum a melody.

_Winter is here again, oh Lord,_   
_Haven't been home in a year or more,  
I hope she holds on a little longer_

She quickly quietened and with that came her fatigue. He supposed she hadn’t quite learnt how exhausting sobbing was. Not that her innocent self could help it, of course. His voice picked up a bit, echoing in the dusty room as he wiped at her eyes.

_Sent a letter on a long summer day_   
_Made of silver, not of clay  
I've been runnin' down this dusty road_

She lay her tiny forehead into the crook of skin where his neck met his shoulder. “That’s it, good girl. The sooner you sleep, the sooner the storm goes away, huh?”

She gurgled away to herself and he couldn’t help but smile - he even fought the urge to fist pump the air as he continued to sing to her. By the time he got through the last chorus, he felt soft, easy huffs and closing lashes against his skin.

At the next clap of thunder, she gave only a quiet snore in response.

_I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: paulrqvias


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii, hi, hi, hi.
> 
> Sorry for the late update! Turns out, getting sick and then getting a tooth extracted in the same week is a real time consumer. But, alas, hope you enjoy!
> 
> As always, apologies for any typos. They'll be edited out when I can!

Getting Judith back to the main cell block had gone as straightforward as it could have. She hadn’t budged from his shoulder, clinging to his frame as she wheezed to herself, a genuine sogn of deep sleep. The soft rhythm of her heartbeat beneath the storm was a calming rhetoric that he needed more than he’d like to admit. Something stable, not unlike the tick of a clock hand or a crash of waves.

When he got to his cell the first thing he did was wrap Judith’s sleeping frame up in an unused blanket at the head of his bed, striped and bright. He sparked up the lantern settled on the drawers by the door. He hadn’t used it often, maybe once or twice to read. He preferred to preserve the light that nature provided him with as long as he could. The lantern made him uneasy. It cast a gentle glow in the room, warm and inviting to any living presence. To him? All he felt was heat curling up his skin.

He sat at the foot of it for a while, uncomfortable with his leg twitching under him as he waited for Maggie or any sign that things were okay again. He wasn’t really sure what he was waiting for, or if he was ready to face it. He wished to see Carl at the end of Carol’s arm, Maggie or maybe just for Rick to come through that hallway and take Judith with a thank you and a smile. He just needed something to ease down this dread.

Eventually, twiddling his thumbs got too much for him. It was all he could hear, his fingers tapping on the metal frame, Judith silent and her shape the only proof she was there. He pushed his leg back out in front of him and bent it back again, marvelled. His mind went back to when he first got to the prison, full of fever and empty of will. No way could he stretch out his toes without pain - even with the meds.

That felt like a dragged out eternity ago, not a mere handful of weeks.

He turned to watch the flame of the lantern flicker under thick glass just for something to do, to focus on. The wax had fallen down to little more than a stump of grey, swimming in it's own molten. Lightning flickered beneath closed eyelids and he fought the instinct to shrink between his knees, to hide.

He really hadn’t been exaggerating to the baby - he actually was fucking terrified of them. He wasn’t sure how or when it had gotten so bad for him, it had manifested before the home and then only worsened. All that he knew was that each day that he would wake to blackened clouds through the window his skin itched and his limbs dragged him back under the covers. The other boys he bunked with would only laugh, mock him. Now, without the distraction of Maggie, Daryl or even the adrenaline thrumming in his veins in their search for Carl, he couldn’t focus on anything but the weather outside and the flame that enveloped his pupils.

He didn’t remember much from that day - at the most, scraps of memory without the details. A blurred lense, a sketch without the depth of needed shade. Just.. blankness. The farthest he could think back to without fighting back bile was the image of his shivering frame under a metal skeleton and a king-size mattress bare of springs at five years old, shaking fingertips squeezed around floorboards as he watched a purple door in front of him.

He could still smell the ash that had fallen from the tray on the bedside drawer clogging up his nostrils. He’d watched it for what felt like hours but in actuality, it was a couple minutes at best. He’d been too afraid to move, waiting for any sign that it was all just a bad dream. He remembered blowing at the ash, a mockery of the howling winds biting at the walls. He had waved his hands around it as he blew, a childish pretence of power. When he closed his eyes, flashes of heat licked at the darkness as they had to the door.

Paul forced himself up with a jagged gasp pulled deep from his chest. He stood on wobbling legs that he couldn’t quite feel the weight of beneath him. He couldn’t breathe without tasting ash on his tongue or flames biting at him. He struggled out of the too small room, languid palms failing to grip the closing walls around him. Static crackled in his ears. His eyes blurred.

He made it out of the cell as time dripped on around him, spitting flame to wax, and it was all he could think about. When he reaches out for anything to steady him, he finds thin air. When his knees fall under him, the static stops. Just for a moment. He pulls crooked fingers up to his face and presses down on each finger. _One, two, three_..

He counted eleven.

And his tongue swam in liquid ash.

He repeated the counting with film over his eyes. He dug blunt nails into the skin of his sweaty palms, the pain a second too slow for him to focus on. He tried again, harder, registered the ten pin pricks, one after the next. It’s not enough to ground him, no, but he can feel his feet again. Perhaps, when he was out of this state, he’d figured that this was progress. But not now.

He felt a light pressure at his jaw and he let his face be tilted up. It was Sasha. Her full lips moved with urgency but he didn’t hear a sound. Her thumbnail teased the end of his jaw and he shivered.

With that, every sound flooded to his ear, fighting to be on top of one another. His heart thudded behind a thick cage, heavy and hurting too hard to focus on. His eyes drooped from Sasha to his heaving torso. She forced him up again. He watched her lips. Every couple of seconds they would repeat the same movements: a curt purse of the lips followed by gritted teeth exposed by a jutted jaw and back again.

She was counting to him. His fingers twitched in his lap and she took his hands in her own. She pulled them up to eye-level and pressed down on his thumb, index and middle finger and back again.

One, two, three.

This time around, when she helped him to it, he counted ten.

“Can you breathe for me, Paul?”

“I-I _can’t_. Hurts-”

“Okay, count for me. One through ten and back again.” She ran her thumb over his exposed wrist. Can you do that?”

He nodded. He counted five more times, the burn of his chest well on it's way to being extinguished. With each count of ten came a blink, and with each blink, his lashes came up wetter.

When he looked up, he realised Maggie was beside her. Had she been there before? Was he that fucking out of it he hadn’t noticed?

Rick was stood with Judith in his arms and Carl at his side, his eyes wide and trained on Sasha and Paul’s joined hands. The girl was still asleep in her father’s arms and, for a moment, he envied her. He yearned to be blissfully unaware, in this moment at the least.

He looked away to a figure leant at the windows. Their arms hung down at their side, short hair framing their face. It was Daryl. Rays shone around and above his form. It took him an embarrassing amount of time to realise that that meant the storm had ended.

The droplets left on the glass were full right up with gentle light. He imagined a defined rainbow outside, rich in each colour, splitting a clear, blue sky apart.

He found he could breathe without it burning so much anymore. Sasha squeezed his hand and his attention snapped back to her.

Heavy eyelids dragged over wide pupils. “Thanks.”

Maggie brought a hand up to Paul’s hair, matted with perspiration, pushing it back to press her lips to his temple. She snaked an arm around his back to rub fingertips between shoulder blades.

“Alright?”

Her voice was low in his ear, the tone the sweetest yet sternest he’d heard from her. Her hand had found the nape of his neck and she stroked burnished strands, letting them run through the gaps between her fingers.

He sat back, back cold against cement that he was half-tempted to press his face against. With that, he was made perfectly aware of the numerous eyes on him. More residents littered the cellblock than he’d initially thought, their eyes stripping him apart.

“Do you want to get yourself outta here? I can run you through everything later if you want me to.”

He nodded, immediate and as stern as he could manage.

She smiled, small and private and only for his comfort. She stood with a grunt, wiped dust from the back of her jeans. She held out a hand that he gratefully took.

“How did you know to do that?”

Sasha looked up from inspecting the dent of her boot scuffing the patterned floor beneath them.

When she’d gotten back from their store run, they’d brought in rugs, carpet, any new furniture of use. Michonne had reasoned that it would make it easier on Judith. It made sense - winter would soon be approaching after all, and Paul could already feel a chill in the air. Though, he suspected it was less about warmth and more comfort, making the community true to it's definition. Even Paul had received a pair of curtains for the doorway of his cell. All he knew was that he felt more at home than he had when he first got there.

He figured that wasn’t accidental.

“I was a firewoman before all of this. Seven years on the job.” Her mouth tilted upward as she spoke. “I quickly learnt how to help quash people’s anxiety. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Right.” He nodded with a sheepish smile. His skin itched beneath the surface, veins thick and heavy and pulling him down. He spun on his heel. “Thank you, again. I’m gonna.. head out.”

Daryl followed after him as he made his way out of the room, a hovering bird, presence a calm weight.

The bowman caught up to him somewhere between the second staircase and the roof. He tugged at Paul’s bicep with a quiet, ‘ _Hold up_ ’.

“What was goin’ on with you back there?”

Paul paused with his hand on the door handle, only thing between him and the roof outside. He’d craved fresh air since the minute that storm had began, and after. He looked back to Daryl. He was unmoving, watching Paul, chewing on the inner flesh of his cheek. Paul looked down to the other man’s hand still hovering over his arm and he quickly dropped it with a swallow.

“It wasn’t.. Is it alright if I don’t want to talk about it?”

“‘Course it is.” Daryl nodded away as Paul opened the door up. The brightness initially blinded Paul’s vision, scalding his pupils. He walked forward into dewey air, tasted the moisture on his tongue and felt his face cool. He watched his breath freeze in front of him each time he exhaled. His skin rose with the cold, though he cared very little about it.

He wiped at a small puddle of rain on a stone ledge to lay his jacket down before sitting. He imagined, before the world went to shit and some semblance of society ran in here, prisoners would come up in the open to escape their troubles from being down below. Or as close as they could get to it. They would sit there, same as himself, and find it the easiest way to breathe through it.

“Okay, uh. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay so I’ll just-”

“Don’t, please.” Paul’s voice shocked himself: it’s broken, hoarse and barely carries over to the other man. When he spoke again, his voice barely carried across the roof. “I mean- you don’t even have to. You can leave if you want.”

He reddened where he sat, arms around his torso. He felt shame bubble up inside at the admittance, “I just.. don’t really want to be alone, so.”

Daryl picked at his thumbnail, legs tied together, before he made his way over without a word spoken. He settled his own jacket down behind himself on the thick glass of the roof window that bordered the small of their backs and sat beside Paul.

Paul looked away to the sky on display in front of them, overlooking the courtyard and the field and the forest surrounding. His insides churned together as he did, his bottom lip between his teeth. He wasn’t even sure how to react: should he thank the man? Should he not react at all? And thank him for what exactly.. sitting down?

Daryl leant back against the glass. It was arched at such an angle where he was neither sitting nor lain back. His eyes had tipped closed, his hands come to rest on his stomach, arm brushing Paul’s side.

The sky tinged a pale orange where the sun teased the tips of the trees, light clouds dotted the clear blue above their heads. Though the sky was bright, he found it was darker than before they’d gotten up there. The wind whipped around their frames, Paul’s hair dragged with it and against his face. He grumbled as Daryl snorted, pushing it up into something he hoped resembled a bun.

“What’s your deal with the vest?”

At Daryl’s eyebrow raise, he clarified. “I’ve never seen you without it so I was just wondering. You don’t need to say.”

Daryl cracked his fingers out in front of him with a satisfying pop. “Before, I was just followin’ my brother ‘round everywhere. Doing shitty weekend jobs, dodgy stuff I ain’t proud of, you know. We were in some motel over Christmas this one year and we’d gotten into an argument ‘cause I wanted us to do somethin’ other than get off our heads in some club. Celebrate together, you know?”

Paul nodded, watching Daryl follow the falling sun. It was barely visible behind the treeline now, only just lighting Daryl’s skin golden.

“It got ugly real quick. We got in each other’s faces. He was high on - God knows, like Meth or somethin’. I kicked him out the room, told him to just go fuck himself.” He chuckled to himself. “He comes back a couple days later with this damn vest. Says he bought it from a biking place for me, top of the range stuff apparently. He was bullshittin’, obviously. But I kept it, just for his sake.”

He paused, didn’t speak for a while. Paul squeezed the arm that brushed his. “It ain’t for him if you thought that. It was at first.. it’s for me now.”

“I didn’t think it was.” Paul’s voice was soft but affirming, “I’m glad you felt you could tell me that.”

Daryl shrugged it off with a lopsided smile, small. He laid back again, comfortable. Paul thought back to Hershel’s comment those few weeks ago - that Daryl would sleep on a windowsill if he could. Paul could certainly believe it, in this moment. He looked away from the man with a smile.

Daryl cracked open an eye, lazy and slow, mouth pulled up in a enquiring smile. “Hm?”

“Oh,” Paul aired between them, his own mouth up in a toothy grin. “You just look _real_ comfy down there.”

“You makin’ fun of me?” At Paul’s laugh and breathy No, he shrugged. “I _am_ comfy.”

Paul watched him for a second too long, eyes creased and teasingly so, turned his gaze to the yard below. They were facing the back of the prison - only recently rid of the dead and the mess that came with them. Michonne had even mentioned plans to convert the field into another, even bigger settlement for the livestock and the crops. He had an inkling that Hershel had a big influence on said plans.

He hummed, content with Daryl’s breathing being the only sound in his ear. With that, his thoughts came much easier. They flooded straight out of his mouth without want. “My parents died in a storm like that. That’s why- that’s why I can’t handle them.”

Daryl dropped his head with a deep inhale.

”I was just a kid, like, I had no idea what was happening. I thought it was my fault for years.” He let out a wet laugh, pushing his hair back from his face. “I’d wished for a storm so I could stay home that day. It was a wednesday and my mom was free from work, always. She loved to bake with me when she wasn’t there. Real cupcakes and stuff. It was my favourite time of the week.”

He could feel Daryl’s eyes on him, calculating his every move and breath. His cheeks heated.

“It wasn’t even- we lived by the woods in this dainty little house. Dad got it for next-to-nothing because it was so fucked before he got it done up. Probably cost more than it was worth but it made them happy so.. I was happy. The storm was awful. One of the trees got hit, fell into my parents’ room. I heard it, I really fucking thought it was like, a burglar or something. I just hid under my bed alone for so long and then the fire service came and forced me out and their door was just- it was just so- there was nothing left of them to mourn.”

He broke off with a gasp, choked up and unbelieving. His throat constricted, his heart heavy. Daryl found Paul’s hand squeezed around concrete. He lay his own, larger, over Paul’s. He ran the pad of his thumb over each individual knuckle and back again. His face was red to the tips of his ears though, still, he made no move to lift it.

Paul pressed his lips together before an unwelcome smile made it's way to his face as he heaved out breath after breath. “I haven’t told anybody that before.”

Daryl quirked a brow, skin of his forehead creased together. “Yea’?”

“Yeah.” He met Daryl’s gaze, voice shaking as he nodded a single time. Tears stained his burning face and he sighed out a breath that came difficult to him. “Thank you, Daryl.”

“For what?” Daryl’s voice came quiet, without the rasp he was used to. “I didn’t do anything.”

Paul let out a wet, ugly laugh, crow’s feet squeezed tight. “You-” He laughed again. “Will you just let me fucking thank you, please?”

He continued. “It felt good to get that out of my head. I don’t know why it was you but I’m glad that it was, I think.”

“I have a lamp,” Daryl blurted out. He looked surprised at himself, tight lips in an administered circle. “It’s battery powered, shitty little thing. The shade is like, it’s pink but, you know. You can have it if you like.”

“ _Thank you_.” He wiped at his under eyes with an ugly snort that almost mirrored Daryl’s. “Uh, pink totally rocks though.”

Daryl nodded, letting out a little breath. He allowed himself to smile, the corners of his mouth barely tipped up and it didn’t meet his eyes but it was a welcomed comfort to Paul all the same. His hand barely topped the younger man’s now.

It was dark out now, he realised when he looked away, the moon strung high and bright above their heads. It was cold, freezing in fact, though Paul’s defiance burned bright enough to warm the both of them.

Daryl’s other hand was playing with the string of the left side of his vest. One was a longer length than the other, the right one tied together in an imperfect bow that Paul was just tempted enough to tug loose.

“I started reading that book, uh, Down in Paris?”

A grin graced Paul’s face that he couldn’t help. His eyes were wide in immature excitement, rimmed with the soft silver of the night. He didn’t have the heart to correct the older man. “You did? What did you think?”

“It’s, well, I don’t hate it.” At Paul’s narrowed eyes, he snorted. “It’s pretty alright, you know, for Orwell.”

“Um,” Paul cleared his throat, skin prickling with heat when Daryl’s head snapped up, eyes zeroing in on him. “I might’ve sketched a couple scenes from the book before.”

“Fuck, you did?”

Paul snorted a nervous laugh merely out of habit, picking at a loose thread on his own shirt. “Just like- I think one was the street the hotel is based on. The alleyways. Just dumb stuff like that.”

“That what you did before?” Paul’s mouth fell open with narrowed eyebrows, confused. “You sell art?”

“Oh,” Paul threw out a snort. “Not at all, unless you count scamming pretentious assholes into buying other, even more pretentious asshole’s replicas.”

“Jeez. I thought I was messed up, selling pot and meth for my brother.” He shook his head in disbelief. “That’s just next level. I was right though, you did sell art.”

Paul shrugged, salty tears long-since dried to his stretched, dimpled cheeks. “Say what you want, the money was great.”

“Mm.” He lifted his hand from Paul’s completely, laying it back in his lap. Paul felt the cold rush to his palm once again, instant and all at once. “You know that we got an art room here? I ain’t been in it, obviously, I don’t think anyone but has used it. You could check it out.”

“Maybe I will, tomorrow.” Paul relaxed his fingers before threading them between those of his other hand. “Wait, what happened with Carl?”

Daryl pulled his jacket back on over shivering, bare arms. “He ran back in for help to deal with the walkers, that’s what Rick said. He heard Judy crying so he went to check on her, turns out a walker had followed. He put her in some room while he dealt with it. Ended up killin’ it eventually, I guess. Maggie found him in the library.”

“That makes sense, when we found Judith the door wouldn’t dare budge.” He yawned between words. “He’s a smart kid.”

“He is,” Daryl confirmed, nodding.

+

Daryl had sat in his cell for a while after they’d left the rooftop, picking at the stash of cinnamon toast crunch he’d had hidden under his mattress. Turns out, the redneck had more than a sweet tooth. He had a mouth full.

They’d sat in relative silence, reading on opposite sides with the help of the hideously pink lamp. Bright in colour, swirling with different shades of the colour that had Paul cringing behind fatigued, hushed laughter.

It was only when Daryl left, and sleep creeped its way in in his wake, he figured he didn’t mind all that much.

He slept with the lamp on straight through to morning.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooooooo!
> 
> Filler chapter here, and for that, I hope you don't mind too much! Though, I will say I look forward to writing the follow-up chapter to this one.
> 
> As always, do let me know if there are any typos here! I do try my best to rid of them all :)

Fall in Georgia was strikingly different to anywhere else he’d ever been before the outbreak.

He’d stayed in London for around four years, give or take a month or five, less than comfortable in a shitty student flat. He’d become more than familiar with dripping ceilings and howling winds pushing at single-glazed windows - a mere net curtain cushioning it's sound.

Hell, his parents’ home had been in the middle of a thick, oak forest in Virginia, for crying out loud. The roof got damaged every other day. Terrible weather was as familiar to him as the blade currently at his hip and the number of steps it took him to disable an opponent.

He’d lived through several blustery months in the angry tropics of Hawaii, endless weeks in a wet Thailand. Awful, damp weather? He knew as well as the back of his hand. He could deal with it.

A heat that, mid-September, as the leaves froze and fell and rotted into the ground, was hot and dry enough to warrant suffrage wearing vests and jeans? _Not so much_. As soon as day trickled into dusk, every last drop of summer would disappear and sleeves would coat bare arms.

Paul shouldered his jacket to one side, making a grab for his knife on the desk. He attempted to holster it to his hip, only to miss the holster all together. He watched as it fell to the floor, a soft thud on the rug - a hideously faded grey and courtesy of Sasha. He picked it up with one, long set of heavy blinking and a yawn of defeat. He got it in on the third try. He could only huff out cold air in sole victory.

He wouldn’t consider himself a morning person by any standard, come to think of it, who did? Though, that wasn’t even it. He’d just woken up earlier than he was used to, really fucking early.

Initially when he’d woken up this morning, it had been silent, save for the muffled thrumming of the prison’s electrics and water system. He’d simply assumed it was the sun that had disturbed him. The curtain to his cell was threadbare and offered, like, next to no shade from the sun and he was certainly a light sleeper.

No, he’d almost fell back under when a cry had pierced the air. For several times in several minutes.

Judith was unwell, Carl had told him twenty minutes later, sheepish and eyes rung with purple. His father suspected a simple stomach bug, nothing much to worry about. By the time she’d had medication and settled, Paul assured Carl that he was much too alert to even consider sleep now.

Paul pulled the other jacket sleeve on, zipping up his front. He nodded to Rick as he passed by, the leader rubbing circles into his temples. He gave an attempt of a wave in return, hand stuck up in the air in his general direction for a second, blink and you miss it.

The cafeteria was empty, save for Tyreese nursing a bowl of Reeses’ puffs and Glenn buttering up some toast. He gets, at most, a grunt of recognition from both men. It wasn’t just him who had their sleep fucked, then. He dipped into the pantry for breakfast himself.

Shredded wheat, porridge, numerous other boxes of nameless, bland foods that had his tastebuds recoiling on his tongue. He grabbed at the nearest energy bar, banana and mango, undoing the wrapper and taking a bite.

Paul is just about finishing the bar off when he finds Daryl outside in the crop field, shovel in hand and basket of numerous vegetables at his feet. The square is almost empty while the basket was virtually bursting at the seams. A successful harvest, then.

“Hey, you didn’t take up a career in agriculture overnight, did you?” He added as an afterthought, humour painting his tongue as he looked to Daryl’s forearms caked in dirt. “That’s hot.”

The bowman squinted up at him, the early, weakened sun in his eyes and lighting his skin gold. It’s just cool enough that the sweat beading at Daryl’s brow is fine and barely there. If his forearms weren’t so blemished, he’d have assumed Daryl had only just began.

He pulled his bandana down, exposing a sharp jaw and curt, little smile. He pushed the shovel down into the earth, biceps twitching with the action. Paul looked back to the bandana.

“Hey,” He striked back. “And fuck off.”

“So crude.” Paul snorted, stuffing the wrapper in his pocket. “You been out here long?”

“Nah. Just needed to do somethin’, couldn’t focus in there.”

“Judith wake you up too?”

Paul darted out a hand to grab at a carrot from the top of the pile. He brushed off dirt from the tough skin, snapping the root at the end. He snapped the orange vegetable in half, pushing the top end into Daryl’s hand.

Daryl was watching him, forehead creased. “You looked like you needed it.”

“Thanks.” A crunch filled the space between them and Daryl hummed in satisfaction, eyes momentarily slipped shut before he retained himself. “My cell’s on the same level as Rick’s - ‘course I heard her. Think everybody did. I don’t mind though, always gettin’ up early anyways.”

“Hmm.” Paul swallowed. “I’ve got a feeling earplugs are gonna be top of the list on the next run.”

Daryl blew air through his mouth with a stern nod. “Right, I gotta tell you, I’m feelin’ real jealous of Maggie and Glenn up in that watchtower right now.”

Paul frowned, crossed his arms. “Aren’t there three more that are, well, free? They’re just empty.”

“Well, yeah, but-” He pauses, considering. Paul supposed he hadn’t thought about it as an option before. “Two of them are for watch. Might ask Rick about it.”

Paul smiled, blinking away sleep. “There you go, no more sleepless nights for you at least. And you’re welcome for the planted idea.”

Daryl chewed on a mumbled thank you. “You goin’ off to the art room soon?”

Paul tucked a wave of hair behind his ear. “Sure, you wanna come with?”

Daryl considered the basket at his feet. “I’ll finish up here then we can get goin’. Actually, you can go, if you see Hershel just let ‘im know he ain’t gotta do this now.”

Paul bit into a smile with a shake of his head. He knew that Daryl was doing it for someone else, selfless as he was. He patted Daryl’s bicep in parting, fingers teasing inked skin. His hand ran down to his forearm, a steady fall, meeting dried, crumbling dirt. “Oh, fuck-”

He could hear Daryl’s laugh playing in his head halfway to the gate. He almost didn’t mind the dirt beneath his nails.

+

“Can see why you like this,” Daryl murmurs, thumbing the third chapter of Down and Out. “It’s real good.”

  
Paul grinned across at him, eyes skimming his face for a moment before settling back on his work. It was a nameless body, a silhouette, reflecting over a body of water. His hand brushed at excess paint grouped at the mouth before he blew on it with a groan.

“I’m glad you’re a fan.” He squinted down at the work. “Does this look symmetrical enough to pass off as a reflection?”

  
Daryl folded the corner of the page over, settled it down to come stand over Paul. Paul was fiddling with his hands now, pressing dark digits into the technicolour on his palm. He’d been working on it for a good portion of the week.

Paul stared down at the paper, Daryl’s breath at the nape of his neck. He was frozen, stuck in place, but thawed out all the same.

  
“Shit. It’s fuckin’ great, Rovia.” He cleared his throat. “Real nice.”

  
“Thanks.” Paul’s ears darkened. His head shot down, tucked into his chest. He cleared his throat and looked up, cheeks matching his ears at the close proximity. “This is nothing, though. And that’s not some vain grab for validation. It’s gonna take me ages to get it anywhere near what I’d be happy with, anyway.”

  
Daryl flicked him in the arm. “Let me fuckin’ compliment it, asshole.”

Paul bit down on a grin. His voice was quiet. “Mhm. You didn’t answer my question.”

Daryl’s mouth quirked up into a smirk. “Fine,” Over his shoulder, he looked from Paul to his handiwork. “The left side ain’t exactly matching the right, I guess. Ain’t as dark.”

At Paul’s groan, he rushed to clarify. “It’s not noticeable, really. Looks just passable enough.”

  
“Fuck you,” Paul pushed at Daryl with an open mouth, exposing bright teeth that were very quickly framed. “You’re such a dick!”

“Takes one to know.” Daryl fired back. He backed up from Paul’s clutches with a snort. “Nah, I don’t know a thing about art but I like it, still.”

Laugh unwillingly dying in his throat, Paul turned to watch Daryl journey back to his seat across the elongated table. He pulled the book open again, placing the bookmark down on the table - a collection of squiggles courtesy of the kids at Carol’s book club.

The room was pretty small, all things considered, yet much bigger than he’d had in mind. Especially for a prison.

Several workstations clung to the walls, surfaces stained with paint and engrained in bold initials, dollar signs and.. phalluses. That had pulled a laugh straight out of both of them - well, that wasn’t strictly the truth. The teenager inside of Paul had definitely found it hilarious, clutching his chest as he wheezed out gasps of laughter. Daryl had made a point to roll his eyes, whether it was to him or the carvings, he still wasn’t certain, with his arms crossed over his chest. He’d quickly cracked and allowed himself to join in. It was probably more to do with Paul’s guffawing than the premise of prematurely drawn dicks, however.

Probably.

The wall furthest to the door held cupboards that Sasha had steadily been using to herself - paints half filled and pastels broken up and mixed together into different compartments that had his teeth grinding.

Unlike the rest of the prison, the art room housed slender, inviting windows, ceiling to ground. No artificial light was needed to flood the room with colour, no, the sun warming their skin and teasing each lick of paint and every dust particle that whirled in the air.

The room smelt the strongest of wood, deep and earthy, a fake imitation of the enriched forest outside. It calmed him instantly; his strongest sense of home outside of Maggie and Daryl and Michonne and the overgrowth of shrubs and vines climbing the back of the prison and the flow of water and that little rock.

He felt much less confined in here, and dare he be as cliche as possible, free. He felt free. Each stroke of the brush, each dip into a black-grey acrylic had him delving into a serenity he hadn’t felt often since the outbreak began.

“I’m so glad you told me about this place,” His voice blended with the music coming from the stereo easy enough. Stereo was a glorified word, he supposed, it was barely bigger than his palm. Joy Division’s chords and vocals gave in to The Hoosier’s. Paul lay his head back with a smile for a mere moment, breathing content through his nostrils.

“It’s so quiet, think that’s why I like it. No people coming to kiss my ass for a favour or Rick houndin’ me to cover another watch shift so I can pretend he ain’t sneakin’ off to Michonne’s cell.”

“Mm. You poor soul, how awful it must be to have people like your company.” At Daryl’s huff, he cracked a dimpled smile. “At least you’re gonna be out there now.”

Daryl blinked. “Yeah. Won’t stop him tryin’ though.”

The bowman was playing with the palette out on the surface in front of the both of them, twirling the slender flick of wood between his thumb and index, bristles lost somewhere between a resigned orange and blue as dark the night sky, very nearly black.

He looked back to his own work, paint still fresh. The one smudge made itself pronounced over the rest of the piece, thick and wet. That was definitely going to take a while to fix - it would need to dry off, first and foremost, before he even thought about correcting it.

A thought struck him, an absolutely illogical thought. While he waited for it to dry, he could always preoccupy himself. He had to admit, he was more than tempted.

“I - you’re not allergic to paint, are you?”

Daryl looked up to him, head to the side. “Nah, why you askin’?”

“It was just,” He paled. “This is gonna take a while to dry, and forever for me to fix properly, so. Uh. I could paint you instead while I waited. If- if you wanted?”

“You mean, like, a picture of me? ‘Cause-”

“No!” He felt blood rush to the surface of his skin. “Just give me your arm. Please.”

Daryl hummed, about to bring his hand to his mouth before he stopped himself. He dropped the paintbrush to the wooden table, arm extended and flat in front of him. His hand balled up into a tight fist.

“I’m not gonna bite.” Paul reached to uncurl the digits.

Daryl looked on with a quiet nod. Paul pulled the bowman’s hand forward to expose his inner forearm, calloused fingertips trailing goosebumps up the back of his wrist.

He dipped the brush into the deep blue, dyeing a long strip of Daryl’s skin. It was tanned, contrasting with the sliver of pale shoulder that peeked beneath his vest. Daryl shivered as he continued, bringing Paul to chuckle under his breath.

“Sorry, you ticklish?”

“No.” The answer he was expecting came straight away,

Paul nodded, picking up the thin, black brush he’d been using before. He trailed black across the blue, ripples in the river. He applied green next, not as dark as the blue, a subtle blend of neighboring colours.

Daryl hadn’t moved his hand yet. Paul didn’t want to bring attention to it, to break whatever calm they’d entered. Daryl watched him as he worked, eyes tracking each flick of his wrist, each stroke of the brush.

“What is it?” Daryl rasps, quietly and gentle in such a way that Paul can’t help but shiver.

“ _Impatient_. You’ll see when I’m done.” He tutted with a smile. “I’ve never painted on skin before though, so, think of it as a trial run.”

Daryl raised a brow. “So I’m your guinea pig?”

“Essentially.” Paul looked up from where he was blending two shades: orange and pink. He tugged at Daryl’s sleeve. “You mind?”

“Nah,” Daryl let him roll up the denim to mid-bicep.

The room fell silent again, and Daryl stole a look at Paul’s handiwork.

The painting had began to take shape; thin, bare trees climbed his forearm, the rippling river dripped down his wrist. Paul had just began the backdrop behind the forest, a blazing ball of yellow right where the sky met the ground of the forest. Orange dotted between two, black trees.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?”

Paul had spoken so quietly that initially, he’d thought Daryl hadn’t heard. Then Daryl’s jaw tilted up, his eyes locked with the artist’s wide, open ones.

“Shoot.”

Paul made sure to keep eye contact. “Why did you stop me, when I tried to leave the prison? Genuinely?”

Daryl’s mouth dropped open, no words coming out. He licked at chapped lips, his fingers in Paul’s grip twitching. Daryl looks down to the palette, a beautiful catastrophe of every shade of paint. His silence makes Paul itch, skin antsy and hot.

“ I think, uh. I figured you needed this place. Just- just like I do, all of us do, I guess.”

Paul stopped painting, which was probably wise, because his eyes couldn’t leave Daryl’s face if he tried. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I saw how you were when Maggie took you out in that chair. How you were - polite, ‘course, ‘cause that’s who you are. You were uncomfortable with the attention, the joking and everybody being all buddy-buddy. I told you that night, that was me, even when we got here.” His smile was self-deprecating. “Hell, that still is me.. I don’t think that’s gonna change.”

He continued under Paul’s gaze. “It ain’t a bad thing - to need a place like this, need a family. I tried so hard to tell myself that weren’t the case. I guess having this place, losing my actual piece-of-shit brother.. It taught me that.”

Paul blinked at him, watching his affirmative nod to himself. Daryl nibbled on his lip, eyes on Paul’s shoulder.

"It's scary, not having Merle with me anymore," Daryl voiced. "He was all I had, the only kind of family I got that was blood. It's like you don't realize how bad the world really is until they're in the ground or one o’ them.” Paul nods. “He was a bad guy. But he was my hero, y’know? He got out, did shit, watched out for me in his own, fucked-up way. For a long time, I admired it. ‘Course now, I’m not sure if I hate or love him more for it. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever look at Rick and his kid, Maggie and Beth, and not feel bad that I ain’t ever had that."

The words hit Paul quick, water stemming in the corner of his eyes. It's then, in that moment, when he realizes just how the same they actualy are.

"You know, my mom made keyboard sheet music in those last couple months. Dad would, uh," He broke off into a wet snort, “He’d pretend it was the best thing he’d ever heard. I’d dance about to the same four keys set to Samba number three while he’d hum sixties’ music.”

The smile he got in return from Daryl was all teeth and crows’ feet, skin creased in happiness that screamed beauty.

"I miss them. But, I don’t know, it doesn’t make sense to me. How can I miss what’s basically just a handful of memories I barely remember?”

“You still- they loved you, they cared for you for a long time. You can forget memories, can’t forget what they meant to you, how they made you feel. I know that I can’t remember exactly what I said to Rick the day we met, I remember throwing squirrels at his head.”

Paul blinked at him, lips twitching in a contained smile before he broke into a laugh. Daryl joins him, laughing at the absurdity of the memory.

“I remember.. not hatin’ him but not exactly likin’ him either. For months. Then he got us through the winter, got us to the prison. He put this group before everything, treated everyone just as he treated.. Lori and his kid. Respected him since then, he’s my brother.”

Paul bit into an exasperated smile, studying him. Daryl held assured contentment, lines by his mouth hard and creased. He spoke of Rick with such clarity, such respect. It was impossible to see where any difference between blood family and Daryl’s chosen one ended and began.

“What about now?”

Daryl’s brows pulled together. “Huh?”

Paul tracked each movement of his, bright eyes impossibly wide and wet. “You said- that’s how I was. How do you see me now?”

A small breath left Daryl’s lips, his eyes dropping. He blinked a couple times, working himself through whatever words he couldn’t get out. Paul waits.

“You're one of us. I’m real glad you didn’t leave. That’s, uh.” He swelters under Paul’s gaze, fingers itching in his grip. “That’s what I know.”

“Me too,” And he can’t help the phantom hand on his throat, impeding his breath, and the stutter in his chest when Daryl smiled, uncertainly but beautifully so.

Paul tangled their fingers together, greens and yellows and orange and black merging into one. “I’m glad you stopped me too, made me see sense. I’m happy that I’m part of this.”

Daryl is watching their hands, eyeing how Paul’s colourful fingers tied around his own. Black paint lined the outer skin of Paul’s pinky finger, and now the inner of his own. He felt fingertips mix delicately in the drying river on his palm before pulled away.

Paul cleared his throat. He mumbled, “Painting’s practically done now if you want to, uh.”

“Keep still?”

Sheepish, “Yeah.”

+

Glenn greeted the two of them on the way out to the courtyard, his bare arms crossed over his chest and face knitted in regret.

Daryl had wanted to check on his snares outside of the gates, and Paul knew Maggie would be out in the field with the animals around this time, as she was every day. She liked to care for the horses, cows, hogs, he supposed it was nothing more than a comfortable habit that she hadn’t shed before the apocalypse. Beth would join her out there sometimes, snuck the foals sugar cubes and carrot stems.

The earlier, gentle sun was hidden behind thick clouds. A telltale sign of rain, if not today, then tonight at the latest. He sighed, unsure of if he was relieved or not. 

“Afternoon guys,” He smiled under his baseball cap.

“Hey,” Paul greeted, “How was watch today?”

“Cold as fuck. It was so warm when I first got out here.” Glenn hummed, chuckling as his breath froze in front of him. “You reckon it slows them down?”

Paul found himself snorting at the image. Frozen walkers were definitely a sight he’d never get used to. He caught Daryl doing the same.

“I reckon it already slows _me_ down as it is.”

Daryl shot him a look of bemusement before turning to the orchard in the field. The leaves still clung to life, the very tips of each green and squeezed of all moisture. Ovals of crinkled orange were trodden into the soil beneath. It calmed him.

Glenn’s gaze fell on Daryl’s arm and his brows drew up. “You fall into a barrel of acrylic this morning?”

“Shut up.”

Paul snorted as Glenn fell into him, the Korean sending a glare back at Daryl. He made a show of straightening his jacket, removing his baseball cap to run a hand through his hair and put it back. “It looks good, man. Anyway, wanted to come see if you’d wanna go on a run with Bob and me.”

“Where you heading out to?”

“Just picking at stores a town over. Probably nothing, but we’re using the gas left over from the last run. Should be there and back by tonight.”

Daryl chewed at his lip as silence fell between the three of them. “Nah, I got snares to check anyway. Wanted to try and catch a boar or somethin’.”

“Alright, stay safe and all that then, yeah?” Glenn shrugged away, bright smile never faltering. “P?”

“Um,” Faltering at their expecting stares, he offered. “Maybe next time? I-”

Glenn waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Gotta go kill some fluffy bunnies together. I got more important shit to do like looking for oatmeal for my wife."

Daryl patted his back in passing. He seemed to ponder his next action, brow twitching, before he threw Glenn a wave. Paul’s own lifted. Glenn had pretty much invited him out on Daryl’s behalf, assuming he wanted to stay behind to go out there with the redneck. While not strictly true - he’d actually wanted to catch up with Maggie - he wasn’t opposed to more time with Daryl. Even if it meant watching him take down squirrels until the moon came up.

“You comin’ or not?”

He didn’t have to be asked twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on twitter: @PAULROVlA


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's Three in the morning so any mistakes here will be fixed tomorrow.

They were deep into the season, long since and subtly past the point of days rich in sunshine and warmth.

The implications of Fall were inevitable out here in the open. Sure, inside of the walls they could ignore them as hard as they liked - and they planned to work around it. Daryl had mentioned the Council’s plans to build a greenhouse to grow crops inside of that would grow fast and easy. Plans had already been drawn up, but everyone had foregone them in exchange for preparing early for winter.

There was something deeply vulnerable to his being out here that he couldn’t entirely explain. Behind the walls, the fences and the safety of the group, sure, he was safe. He was even happy. But being exposed to the elements, the wild, he felt a paradox of ease. Of course, the prison made him feel the same, but it grew lower with each day inside. His yearning for the untamed Earth beneath his feet, to grip his blade handle and submit to his roots itched beneath his skin. Some days, he was happy to ignore it. Today, his skin thrummed in calm with each step he trailed behind Daryl.

The prison was evolving more into a home with each passing day. It was minuscule touches, things he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking out for them.

It was Snickers dropped in his room after every run, it was Daryl’s boots hanging off the end of his bed and Maggie’s books on his bedside table. It was the crayon drawings taped to the walls, chalk drawings on the cement outside, the carpet on the cell block floor and weekly spaghetti nights and video games in the Rec. room thrice a week.

He would soon feel the embers of him that begged to be outside of the community cool, but not for a while.

Wind whipped around Paul’s face. Angry, cool to the touch, the cold seeping past skin and muscle and burrowing into his bones. His hair dragged around with it, hazardous and in every direction, partly clouding his vision.

Daryl fared off better than him, at an advantage with his short hair playing a timid dance on his brow line where it grew longest. He was focused on the task at hand, completely still, eyes set hard on the forest floor.

As far as he could see, everything bled into one, singular model. Orange; the floor swam with it, the trees clung to what little remained at the end of stripped branches. The sun that filtered through cloud and branch alike, weakened but golden all the same.

He couldn’t help but think of his parents. His mother had hair the color of Fall. Beautiful, curled around a sharp jaw that had been passed to him. Not that you could see it beneath the beard, of course. His dad used to tell him it was kissed by fire. Paul swallowed down bitter venom at the comment that he could still hear, even now, with every tiny, veined oval package of the season that his eyes landed on.

Their presence never left when the woods surrounded him, and he found it didn’t hurt so much anymore. He still itched to be out here, he supposed that that was never going to leave him. He sensed that Daryl was the same. He was completely in his element as much as Paul was, relaxed and comfortable even where he couldn’t physically see.

“You alright?”

Paul’s head snapped up, met inquiring eyes. “I- yeah.” He smiled, unsure of if it was more for Daryl’s sake or his own as he grasped. “Yeah, of course.”

Paul’s gaze fell to Daryl’s arm, to the vining black intertwined in rich color. He pulled in a breath through his nose with a nod to himself.

Daryl was still watching when he looked up, his bow at his feet and momentarily forgotten. He worried at his lip as Paul stood firmly in place.

He lifted his head to meet Paul’s gaze head-on. “It’s alright if you ain’t, you know.” The older man held an almost pained expression as he nibbled at his cheek unable to finish. “I’m-”

_Here._

Paul’s chest ached, longing to hear that one word, and he quickly looked off to the side. Cold prickled on his skin, and he didn’t have to imagine how flushed his cheeks were - not just from the cold. He looked between Gothic trees that tangled together and moss that climbed the thick bark. Yellow poked out behind the closest, small and delicate and arched up toward the debilitated sun.

“I know.”

He approached the patch of flowers, mindful and light on his feet. His fingers brushed over soft petals, he relished in the beauty. It was rare to find a flower still blooming at this time of year, to find life that clung on before the sun clouded over and heavy clouds graced the Earth.

He plucked one from the root, half as long as his arm. He bent to unzip his bag, taking care when placing it atop boxes of stale candy. He zipped it back up. Daryl was watching him, mouth closed in silent mirth. Paul suspected, if they weren’t hunting, he’d be mocking him by now.

“They’re just - we’re in the middle of Fall, right? These flowers are meant to bloom only through Spring to the end of Summer.” He couldn’t help the childish glee that slipped into his speech and warmed his face. “But here they are. Don’t you think that’s cool?”

Daryl didn’t speak at first, eyes skimming their surroundings before he visibly relaxed a little, enough to converse properly. There were no walkers in sight. “What are they?”

Paul figured Daryl knew already: everyone had limited knowledge of wildflowers like them, at the least, but he didn’t press. Daryl’s wonder, whether it was genuine or not, didn't stem his splurge of information. In fact, the opposite.

“Daffodils, they’re mostly native to Asia and Europe, never mind Georgia, so I find their existence odd on that fact _alone_ but this time of year, too? They’re the first to bloom and last to burrow, I guess. The Greeks tell an old story about a guy called Narcissus whose only love was his own reflection. He fell into a pool of water one day from staring too hard, and drowned. From the bank where he’d stood, a flower grew and it was the Narcissus. Or- or the daffodil.”

“You weren’t kidding when you said you like them,” Daryl shot him a lopsided smirk.

“Fuck you,” He snorted. “You looked interested enough.”

“Suppose they’re cool, I guess.” Daryl shrugged. “With ‘em bein’ untouched and all.”

Paul grinned up at him with a hum. It began as a show of sarcasm, but he couldn’t help that his lips pulled together with each syllable until, he was sure, he was merely watching the other man. “Thank you.”

Daryl rolled his eyes, expression full of mirth. His eyes dropped to the patch of flowers by Paul, and so naturally, Paul’s gaze followed.

Blood dripped from a particularly large petal, collecting together in a pool on the leaves beneath.

At Daryl’s groan, Paul grimaced. “Huh. Doesn’t look good, does it?”

“‘Least it’s fresh,” Daryl supplied, bringing his bow up to his face again. “C’mon.”

Paul followed after him, only to lose his balance and fall back onto his right foot, disturbing leaves that collapsed and groaned under the pressure. He chewed on his lip where Daryl exhaled a sharp breath through his nose, turning to look back at Paul.

He reddened, holding his hands up and open.

“Sorry,” He whispered, sheepish, voice carrying in the breeze.

“S’alright.” His tipped up. Paul’s eyes fell to the beauty mark above his lip. “Can tell you ain’t ever done this before.”

He flipped the bird in Daryl’s direction.

“How do you know what you’re dealing with?”

He looked from the forest floor to catch Daryl’s mouth press together in a thin line. The archer turned back to the action at hand, scouring for clues invisible to the naked eye or, well, to Paul.

“Been doin’ this since I was a kid. Coming out here, trackin’, huntin’. My brother taught me how to do it.” He pointed a finger at the ground in front of them. “You see that?”

“No?” Paul raised a brow, shaking his head. “All I see is leaves, mud, more leaves.. various stages of decomposition.. and leaves.”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed, though the minuscule smile dancing on his lips betrayed him. He pulled himself up, his foot landing on leaves and pressing them into the wet floor. The pressure made for a loud crunch.

Paul grinned at him, mirthful, tongue behind his teeth. “ _Careful_.”

“Shut it.” Daryl huffed, and then he was taking hold of Paul’s forearm.

The archer’s hand wrapped around his wrist, delicate, and Paul froze entirely. All that his mind registered was pure warmth, shooting from his wrist to his chest and through his entire body.

Daryl lifted his arm, folding each of Paul’s fingers with the exception of his index. Paul watched through hazy eyes, at a loss for words for the first time since they’d met. The last thing on his mind was the damn animal.

Daryl’s index teased his palm, cold, rough digit meeting smooth heat. He could feel Daryl’s body; not directly against him, but the skin of his back burnt away from the close quarters alone.

“See that?”

Paul only watched after Daryl’s face, eyes caught on the beauty mark above his lip. He wonders what it would feel like between his lips, teeth, under the roll of his tongue.

Transfixed, he stammered out,  “No.”

Daryl’s hand loosened around his wrist. His voice is soft, even with the gruff growl that seemed to reside on his tongue when he spoke. “Trail in front of us is fresh, recent. She was here maybe.. Ten minutes ago?”

Paul shivered with the loss of contact. “She?”

“Doe. Shape of the tracks is what I’d expect of one.”

Daryl’s smile hit him unexpectedly where it grew, slow and lithe, and beautiful.

+

They find the corpse twenty minutes later, body stripped clean.

Daryl doesn’t say a word, flanking Paul as he head back in the direction where the Prison stood.

+

Maggie’s there to greet them at the gate, hair pulled into a ponytail and her hands in the pockets of Glenn’s jacket. Daryl’s sour mood isn’t subtle, his features twisted together as he stomps by with nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement.

“Hey,” She linked her arm in his. Paul watched the fair hairs rise up her arm, she made no effort to take it back. “It didn’t go well?”

“Walkers got to the doe he’d been tracking since we got out there.” He blew out hot air between his lips. His lungs burned when he sucked another breath in.

Maggie’s face softened as she ran her tongue across chapped lips. “He just wants to help, provide. He worries too much.”

They were approaching the last pen, and she struck her hand up in a wave to Tyreese, tending to Violet. Paul did the same, the man giving a smile and gloved wave back. “He wants to go back out there tomorrow.”

She huffed through pursed lips. She pushed crinkled paper into his palm. “Glenn found it at the strip mall by a couple o’ walkers, an abandoned camp, I guess. He reckons it's more places that could be untouched.”

He uncurled the map, ripped at the edge and dry blood dotting its entire span. She spoke again. “That’s at least a Hundred kilometres out West. Chances are, at least one of these places is gonna be good.”

His smile came easy. “I’ll get it to him, maybe he’ll wanna take Glenn out.”

Her brows drew together, the green of her irises accentuated by her bemusement. She shook her head, teeth biting into her bottom lip. “Yeah, sure, maybe he will.”

When it had stormed, weeks before today, the lower end of the field had flooded. Namely, the areas bordering the first ring of mesh metal that fenced them in. The orchard had fallen victim, fallen leaves swimming in murky liquid, tree roots exposed.

The gate that separated the field and courtyard had been damaged, mesh metal bent out of shape and both locks curled on their hinges. Rick and Daryl had, of course, taken it upon themselves to fix it.

Even now, as they passed through and Maggie shut it closed, it groaned in retaliation. It took her two tries to slide the rusted lock it’s end. She left the second lock, albeit the hardest, free for Tyreese to close for the final time that day.

The canteen is stocked up with people when they get inside, bundled up and happy, minus the one he wanted to register the most. There’s a new face, framed by brown pigtails and flushed red.

Glenn waved him over, steaming bowl held between his thighs and spoon stuck out of his mouth. Paul pressed his lips to Maggie’s cold temple in parting, the farmer’s daughter pressing into the touch with a smile splitting her face.

The new girl is sat by Michonne, flanked by Glenn. She raises a hand, her sleeve dirtied with blood too dark to be human. “Hi, anyone ever tell you you look like Christ?”

Paul snorted out a laugh. “Only every man I’ve ever fuc-.”

“ _Oh my God_ ,” Glenn cuts him off, shoving his own cutlery into his mouth. The woman grinned. “This is Tara, found her at the store.”

“Actually, I saved his ass.”

Glenn pushed her shoulder. “I tripped over boxes, she found me with my foot stuck in a shelf.”

Tara, at least, took visible pride in his statement. “Hell yeah I did. So what’s your deal, Jesus? How’d you end up here?”

Paul grabbed at the last Reeses’ cup on the table, still in the packet, and popped it into his mouth. “Got found half-dead by Maggie and Daryl, woke up being treated for an infection. I was stuck in the infirmary counting sheep for a week.”

“ _Sheesh_.” She plucked at a thread hanging from her gloves. “Daryl the guy who came storming in like someone shit in his bed?”

Paul nodded. He licked at his lips, chasing the last remnants of sugary goodness. “Actually, you mind if I head out?”

Tara eyed him, expression serious for the first time since she’d regarded him. It was washed over as soon as she blinked, thick brow turned up. “Nah, guess you got prayers to answer.”

A laugh still tickled in his throat when he left the canteen.

+

Paul picked the lock of both doors to the watch tower, at the base and the one boarding Daryl’s room.

Daryl’s back is facing the doorway when he finds him. He isn’t asleep, the lamp still on and his breathing too sharp. A demon made of black ink dances on his shoulder blade. He’s rid of his jacket, his leather vest too, the only thing on his back a flimsy green vest.

“Can I come in?”

He watched Daryl freeze for a second before he looked back to Paul, the slightest bit bemused. It warmed Paul’s insides better than the tea he’d downed on the walk down to the watch tower. “You already here, ain’t you?”

Paul fiddled with his thumbs, pressing them into sweaty palms. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted- you just care so much for this group, I know that and they know that. You shouldn’t feel guilty because of that deer.”

“It could have fed us for days, ‘least Judy and Carl, Lizzie, Mika, Patrick. They shouldn’t go hungry.”

Paul sat by him on the bed, their shoulders pressed together. Daryl reddened instantly, his eyes drawn to his hands in his lap.

They sat in silence, and Paul watched raindrops trail down the windows, curtains pushed aside.

“Feel like shit.”

Paul looked up to the archer’s face, skin of his cheek hollow where he chewed on the inside of it. “There’s always tomorrow. It’s not your fault, anyway, I distracted you.”

Daryl scoffed, meeting Paul’s eyes head-on for the first time since he’d entered. “And I let you.”

It was Paul’s turn to duck his head, beard irritating the skin between his collarbones where he tucked it. His hand brushed the pocket of his jacket that he still hadn’t taken off, and he remembered Maggie’s earlier words.

When he thrust the map into Daryl’s palm, their fingers brushed again.

Daryl went quiet again, face unreadable, narrow eyes scanning the map’s contents. He turned back to Paul, lips parted, before they spread up.

Daryl curled his middle and index finger around the strip of skin that journeyed from the base of Paul’s pinky to the bottom of his palm. The thank you went unspoken but it wasn’t entirely needed.

Yawning, “I’m heading out tomorrow.”

“Alright.”

The rain hammered at the metal roof above them in the space between Daryl’s words and the cold thrums in Paul’s veins.

Daryl takes his hand back, grabs his pillows and the blanket by his feet, “Stay, I’ll sleep down here.”

“ _Daryl_.” Maybe it’s the liquid winter coursing through his body, or the warmth that’d been settled in his chest since he’d painted it, but he grips Daryl’s forearm. The older man stops in his ministration so sudden as though he’d been burnt.

“Just stay, please.”

Neither move at first, Daryl still crouched on the fucking floor, before he throws the blanket to the end of the comforter. Paul took the pillows out of his hand, palm pressed into a faded rose, placing them back in their original position.

It doesn’t take long at all to fall asleep, Daryl’s back to his and the rain forgotten.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooooooooo.
> 
> So, it's been a hot minute since I updated this fic. The draft for this chapter has been sat in my documents collecting dust for months while college took over my life. I felt inspired to continue as I finally have a bit of free time to do so! I hope you enjoy, and Happy Easter!
> 
> (All typos will be fixed tomorrow.. probably.)

The very first thing that Paul registers is the soft snoring in his ear. Deep, low and tickling the skin of his neck.

The second, the arm thrown over his middle, soft pads of tickling at his side. It falls as Paul pulls himself up into a sitting position. It takes a second or two for him to blink away the last lull of sleep that sat heavy on his lids. He moved to wipe a hand over his face, the morning sun blinding where it reflected from every bead of rain on the windows.

Daryl huffs, pressing closer as his hand journeys Paul’s stomach before seemingly settling on his chest. He blames that on the way fire fights it’s way through his veins.

He turns in Daryl’s hold, to watch him, take it in. Maybe it’s selfish, to take advantage of his state like this, to drink in every relaxed line and bristle of his face, knowing he wouldn’t get the chance to witness him like this again. Completely at ease, free of the weight on his shoulders and sour downturn of his features. It suits him, highlights his beauty, and Paul savors it.

He wonders, for a brief second, if anybody else has ever seen him like this. So vulnerable, danger at the very back of his mind as the only movement of his is the rise and fall of his chest.

Maybe Rick, or Michonne. Daryl had told him of the months he and Michonne had spent searching for their predecessor antagonist. Months of holing up in rotting tool sheds and carcasses of once-running vehicles, waiting out the Dead and alive alike.

No, he decided, watching the sun stroke his face, Daryl never let his guard down. The first awake and the last to sleep, even months into finding the Prison, Maggie had informed him. He didn’t know if that was a good thing, Daryl trusting him enough to relax around him, but he knew that he was terrified of what it meant.

His lips part slightly, enough for him to take in a breath as he slowly comes to. Paul can’t help the smile that he tries very little to dampen at Daryl’s small frown, eyelashes fluttering.

“You got paint on my shirt,” Paul almost groans, squeezes his eyes shut, because, _really?_

Daryl huffs out a breathy chuckle into the pillow, cracking an eye open and looking decidedly anywhere but Paul as he pulls his hand back. His voice is deep with sleep, a mere rumble that makes Paul shiver. “Damn shame.”

“Asshole,” Paul whispers, not trusting himself to be any louder, pushing his hair back. “Did you sleep alright?”

Daryl hums, hair sticking out in every direction as he sits up, blinking at the sun. Paul decides it's fucking _cute_. “Slept fine, sorry ‘bout- y’know.”

“I didn't mind,” Paul settles on, biting at the inside of his cheek. He tears his gaze away from the man sat beside him, blankets curled at his hips, to the map sat on a chair across the room. “We’ll find something today, alright? That’s if you’re still up for it?”

Daryl’s finger traces over the paint remaining on his arms - merely a swirl of black and red figures at this point - as he hums. “You think so?”

Paul offers a grin, voice teasing, “Know so. I can feel it,” He puts a hand to his chest, “Right here.”

Daryl guffaws, pushing at his arm with as much energy as he can muster minutes after waking up. Which isn’t much, allowing Paul to dodge it almost entirely as he sits back. “Your heart’s on the left, Genius.”

Paul goes to retort back before his stomach drowns any response out, a reminder that he hasn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.

Daryl narrows his eyes, “Yea’, we’re getting food in you first. It’s a good two hour drive, can’t have you passin’ out on me, can I?”

Paul snorts out an indignant huff, pulling on his boots as he watches Daryl pad over to the chest of drawers near Paul and pull out his vest.

“I’ll meet you down there,” Daryl throws over his shoulder, contemplating between three pairs of identical black socks.

“Sure,” Paul gives a nod as his stomach growls impatiently. He pauses as he pulls on his jacket from last night. “I’m not saving you shit.”

A sock hits the back of his head as he makes his way out of the door, and he’s still cackling as he reaches the courtyard.

“Morning, Handsome,” Michonne greets him with a smirk, bumping his forearm. “I hear you’re no longer our token new guy. What on Earth do I call you now?”

He considers it for a moment, shooting Carol a smile as they pass by her. She’s sat in the early morning sun that paints her hair silver and eyes ice. He gets a prolonged look in retaliation before her eyes flick back to the tower. To his surprise, her smile back is bright.

“Uh, Handsome is just fine with me,” He grins, and Michonne elbows him with a mirrored smile. He clarifies, “Paul, Paul is good.”

“Noted,” She picks up a bowl as they enter, porridge, and passes him one too. He furrows his brows at the sight, and she offers a shrug. “For Daryl.”

“Oh, thanks.” He flushes, hiding his face behind disheveled hair. “You meet Tara yet, then?”

Dark eyes are narrowed at him, but Michonne doesn’t inquire any further. Her smirk remains, though. She watches as he fiddles with the toaster, giving Bob a smile as he passes by.

“Last night after you went running after Daryl, actually. She seems nice enough, and I trust Glenn’s judgement.”

“Yeah,” He agrees, buttering at the toast in his hand now that they’re sat down, stomach churning at the sight. “I’m just glad I’m not gonna be ogled at like the new kid in school anymore.”

“I don’t know about that,” She chuckles, eyes set behind him, and he doesn’t get a chance to press before Daryl perches himself on the step beside him. Paul pushes the bowl into his hand, and Daryl’s head dips as he mumbles his thanks, hiding a smile in his shoulder.

Michonne gives him a look that he can’t decipher before it’s washed over again by humor. She stands, squeezing Daryl’s shoulder. “I just remembered Rick wanted to talk to me. Later, Handsome, Dixon.”

Daryl shakes his head at her retreating figure. He turns to Paul, “Handsome?”

“Don’t ask,” He gets out around a mouthful of toast, “She’s being so weird this morning. Actually, Carol was too. She _smiled_ at me.”

Daryl’s lips tip upward, and he fights to contain it for a second before he snorts out a laugh. Paul can’t help but mirror it.

“What?”

“Nothin’,” Daryl’s smile widens, and teeth poke out as he grins, “Guess she just decided she finally approves of you now. Congratulations.”

“Oh, _dude_ ,” Glenn pops down on a chair nearby, mouth full. “What did you do?”

His head snaps back to Daryl who’s sporting the same smile that Glenn is, offering Paul exactly _zero_ support. ”I was just walking here with Michonne! Is it, like, reverse psychology or something? ‘Cause it’s kind of working.”

“You’re fine,” Glenn gets out between chuckles, and adds, “..Probably.”

“Carol’s just protective of everyone,” Daryl supplies, patting his knee. Paul tries not to think about how his hand lingers for a second or two. “I reckon she likes you just fine.”

Glenn snorts, whatever he was going to say dying on his tongue when Daryl turns his gaze from Paul to him. He straightens up, though his eyes remain bright. “So Mags told me you guys were gonna go check out the place I found yesterday?”

“Yea’,” Daryl nodded, and Glenn watched him, expecting more. When it appeared Daryl was saying nothing more, he turned to Paul to clarify with a tilt of his head.

“She gave me the map you had, we were thinking of heading out soon. You reckon it’ll be alright?”

“Hope so,” Glenn stretches, letting out an exaggerated yawn. “The map’s got a million and one markings. They must’ve held onto it for a reason, right?”

“Mm,” Daryl posed helpfully, pushing his half-empty bowl onto the table behind Glenn. He regarded the other man, “Is the tank from yesterday full?”

“Oh, near enough. We left all run supplies in it too so knock yourselves out! Not literally, of course, but-”

Daryl and Paul shared a look of amusement as Paul stood too. “Thanks, Glenn. See you soon.”

The Korean threw up a hand. “Sure, see you later, buddy.”

Paul caught Daryl’s arm as they got outside, approaching the side of the prison block where the cars were held. Daryl froze, head snapping to look at his arm to Paul himself. Paul dropped his hand.

After a moment, Daryl cleared his throat, gaze softening. “Yeah?”

Paul’s cheeks heated. “I just wanted to tell you that it's okay if this doesn't work out. We can find more, provide more.”

“I know,” Daryl mutters, chewing on his lip. He looks back to Paul, brows drawn together in frustration. “It's just-”

“I know,” Paul mimics, smile close-mouthed. “We'll figure it out.”

+

“Fuck this,” Paul groaned, arms burning with past exertion, back against the door as he slid down until he was sat on the floor.

Daryl isn’t faring much better, already collapsed next to him, chest heaving, their breaths swallowed up by the groans outside of the diner.

The strip mall had been brimming with supplies to the point of which they’d ticked off most of the list everyone had pulled together. The last of the stores had been full of the Dead and they’d ran to the Diner across the road.

“By the time they clear off, it’s gonna be dark. Our shit’s probably been looted already,” He kicks out his leg uselessly, fist clenched at his side.

Paul’s hand finds his, twines their fingers together with ease, and his stomach flips when Daryl visibly relaxes. The hunter sucks in a breath, scanning the dinner in front of them, surprisingly intact.

“My first run here, and it couldn’t have gone worse,” Paul snorts. “I didn’t even get the Reeses’ from the car.”

“Could’ve gone worse, your leg’s fine.” Daryl shot him a smirk, “Ain’t a single hair outta place on your head.”

Paul’s laugh in reply was weak, swallowed by exertion. “They should be gone by morning if we’re quiet enough.”

“Hope so.”

“They will,” Paul assured, running his thumb along the back of Daryl’s. “I said it'd work out, and it will.”

They sat there for a moment, the only sound being their collective breathing and groans outside. Paul presses closer to Daryl’s side and gets only a huff in response.

They stay there until Daryl flicks at his ear. “Gimme your flashlight.”

Paul’s brow twists up, pressing it into Daryl’s grip. He flips it on, and a counter fills their limited vision. It’s near enough empty, of course it is, but several candy bars remain.

Paul grins, standing. “We should check out the kitchen. I haven’t had pancakes in a while.”

They go down a short, dusty corridor, as Daryl unsuccessfully hides sneezes in his sleeve. Paul passes him a bar of Hershey’s before stashing the remainder in his backpack, along with several bottles of water.

The refrigerator is a secret blessing; stacked full of food frozen to last - including a loaf of bread. Paul had thanked his lucky stars, allowing it to defrost before making them both a PB&J.

Daryl hums around his as he wolfs it down in the seat opposite, forking out honey from the jar that Paul was helping himself to and watching it drop into his hot chocolate. Or, alternatively, powdered milk and hot chocolate powder in lukewarm water.

Daryl downed half of it, raising a brow at Paul’s grimace.

“You’re disgusting,” Paul quipped. He pushed the jar at Daryl. “If I eat anymore, there’s a strong possibility that I may throw up on you.”

Daryl shrugged, catching the remnants of jam that had escaped his mouth with his thumb. Paul’s skin prickled as he sucked at the digit. He turned away, staring at the tile below his feet.

“Were you a scout at, uh..” He trailed off.

“Barrington?” At Daryl’s nod, he continued, “I, uh, I was the sole runner most of the time. Our community - there were maybe five, ten others who would go on runs too. But, uh, not as often as me. Spent more time outside the walls than inside them.”

“They were shit at it, huh?”

Paul watched Daryl smile against the rim of the mug as he brought it to his mouth again. The act was meaningless, easy, but it comforted Paul a great deal. That seemed to be happening more often, he supposed.

“More like I just didn’t want anyone out there with me; I couldn't handle the people, y’know? I'm not really used to it - it freaks me out,” He bit into a broken smirk, “As you probably guessed. I'm just not good with.. with good.”

“You ain't the only one. But..” Daryl paused, eyes flitting from Paul to the boarded window beside their booth, choosing his words carefully. “Maybe you should consider the fact you deserve it. I know I was meant to find this community, these people, I'm a much better person than I ever would’a been without it.”

“I'm glad you and Maggie found me half-dead and brought me back,” Daryl rolls his eyes, and Paul hopes his expression becomes more serious. He knocks Daryl’s hand that resides on the table with his own. “No bullshitting, I think, maybe, you're right, y’know? For the first time… I think I feel like I belong.”

“I’m glad, too.” Daryl smiles across at him; lips stretched and eyes crinkling. “No shittin’.”

“You're sweet,” Paul murmured, mostly to himself, heart pounding as Daryl flushed. He sat back against the worn leather, resting his head against the wall, watching Daryl fiddle with his vest.

“You know this is my first ever time in Georgia,” He voiced uselessly after a while, stretching his legs out ahead of him and letting his feet land on Daryl’s right.

Daryl snorts. “Well, ain’t much better than it was Before. Welcome to the State of Adventure.”

He hears a chuckle, realizing it belonged to him after a second, and grinned. “Like Virginia was any better, it was a mess. Nothing more than a bunch of overrun communities when I left.”

“Doubt it’s any different here either. Everywhere we’ve been has had the same happen, fuckin’ things are everywhere. Prison’s the longest we’ve been safe.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way.”

The groans of the Dead were nothing but a distant thrum, matching the quiet beat of his pulse in his ears and their combined breathing.

He didn't quite relax, couldn't afford to, but he let his eyes slip shut.

+

Paul woke to scraping.

At first, he dismissed it as the fog between sleep and consciousness messing with him, maybe Daryl himself waking too.

He pushed himself up from the booth, sunlight fighting through gaps and coating him golden. Again, he heard it. Much clearer than before, and closer, too.

“Daryl,” He whispered, knocking the other man’s clothed knee. He gets an incoherent groan in response, a twitch of his brow in recognition. “Get up, I hear something.”

“Like what,” The hunter rasps, turning his face away from the sun. Paul is tempted to laugh at the action but he tries again, this time his shoulder.

“I think the Dead are getting in, we gotta go,” This sobers Daryl up enough for him to grab his backpack from the floor, throwing it over his shoulder.

“The back door,” Paul offered, unsheathing the blade at his hip. “Didn’t sound like there were that many backing it up yesterday.”

“There might be more, sounds like a herd.” He huffed in frustration as he looked ahead of them. Daryl tapped at his wrist, marching through the kitchens, his bow in his other hand. Paul followed after him, skin burning. “Ain’t like we got much of a choice, huh? C’mon.”

The metal door unsurprisingly, locked. Paul knelt to pick it. “You got anything metal? Anything at all?”

Daryl narrowed his eyes. “You think I have hair pins to spare?”

“I would never presume,” Paul threw over his shoulder. “It’s fine, my knife’ll have to do.”

“Right,” Daryl commented, turning his bow to the entrance to the kitchen. The scraping had gotten louder, the Dead were almost in. “Might wanna hurry it up, Paul.”

“Got it,” He murmured, heart thumping in his chest as he got to work.

The both of them fell into silence, air full of splitting wood and glass falling to tiled floor.

“Paul,” Daryl hissed, and Paul didn’t need to look to know that they were out of time.

“Almost done, you’re gonna have to hold them off.” He turned the weapon again, and the door swung open to snapping jaws.

He pulled his blade out and into the first decomposed skull he could find, an arrow whizzing past his head and knocking out another. He kicked out at the third, pulling back the blade and throwing it at the fourth.

Daryl grabbed his forearm, pulling him away from the crowd and in the direction of the car. It looked fine, albeit stained by the Dead, but perfectly intact still.

“There’s too many!”

Paul tackled a walker in their path to the ground, his blade an extension of his limb as he stabbed it before he narrowed in on another. He kicked out with both legs, soles of his boots meeting a rotted carcass of a chest.

Daryl was doing the same; several arrows stuck from bodies around him. They continued in this fashion, side-by-side and in sync.They were almost at the car at this point when Daryl pulled him closer and against his side.

“I’m out,” He hissed, swinging his bow to hit another in the face.

They were surrounded.

Paul continued to slash, kick, stab but the herd didn’t seem to halt. They surrounded them at all angles, to the point of which the car was barely in sight.

Paul’s stomach flooded with dread, eyes wet as Daryl heaved for breath beside him.

“It’s okay,” He thinks he hears Daryl attempt over the groans that pollute the air, hand in his.

It’s kind of funny how that soothes him, seconds from a death sentence. It shouldn’t, his blood should be thrumming with fear, and it _is_ but it’s distant. He supposes, as he turns his face into Daryl’s shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut, this is what belonging actually feels like. Only he would have to be staring death in the face to realize that.

“Get down and to your vehicle!” comes from somewhere nearby, and they don’t have to be told otherwise.

There’s the sound of gunfire, dead eyes peering straight ahead as bodies slump to the floor around them.

It all blurs into nothing, just his feet dragging along and his heart thumping in his ears, until everything quietens.

He catches two figures stood by the diner, guns in hand.

One is a woman, face hard beneath a beaten cap as she reloads her handgun. The other slings his rifle over his shoulder, nodding at them.

“You’re damn mighty-fine at fightin’ those dead fucks,” The man all but bellows in greeting, and Daryl huffs beside him.

“You enjoy the show, huh? Watchin’ us almost get chomped on by the bastards?”

“ _Daryl_ ,” Paul squeezed his hand before he let it go. “Sorry.”

The woman snorts before regaining her stoic expression, hand on her hip. “S’alright. Where you headed?”

Paul looks to Daryl for confirmation, who gives a shrug. “We have a community, the prison Eighty kilometers west.”

The woman seems to ponder on it, biting into her bottom lip as the man tuts. “Nah, we’d love to curl up and sing kumbaya with y’all but we got priorities. We’re gonna have to pass on that one.”

The woman comes forward to hand Paul a map. The cover reads Virginia and he swallows a laugh at the absurdity of everything.

“Rosita, and that _tonto_ is Abraham,” She offers with a smile. “You don’t need to thank us, and to be honest, we don’t have the time to spare to stick around and gossip. But if you’re ever headed up there, you know where to find us, alright?”

“Thank you,” Paul nodded, moving to put the map in his back pocket. When he drew his arm back, he noted it was covered in the blood of the bodies that littered the gravel around them.

Daryl fared the same.

“Nice savin’ your sorry asses! Can’t say I’d like to repeat it anytime soon,” Abraham waves, walking ahead to their own car.

Rosita saluted them as a farewell, following Abraham ahead.

Paul watched until they were out of sight, dumbstruck. What the Hell had just happened?

“Paul,” Daryl called, and he spun around to Daryl stood at the open trunk. “Everything’s still here.”

“Huh.” Daryl’s smile was infectious as they looked over the intact supplies. He turned to the hunter, knocking his shoulder. “What’d I say?”

“I hate you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on twitter: @thcminewts


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo.
> 
> I'm upset, it's 3am and I love Paul Rovia with my entire being and I needed to write something this soft and self-indulgent in this verse.
> 
> I hope it meets your satisfaction!
> 
> All typos will be updated tomorrow when I'm a little more coherent!

The drive back to the Prison couldn’t be passing by slower, the space between the two of them plunged into utter silence and rotting with the stench of the dead, a constant reminder of what had just happened to them. Of how they were inches from imminent death. 

That moment played on a loop at the forefront of his mind, a film over his eyelids every time he blinked.

Paul looked down to his jacket arm, something he couldn’t fucking quit doing, apparently. An array of semi-circular teeth marks trailed the thick leather. He hadn’t even realized that they’d been that close. Just a matter of seconds. If it wasn’t for Rosita and Abraham, he’d be nothing but walker chow now. 

Or stumbling among them.

He doesn’t miss Daryl casting looks in his direction either. He’s not exactly  _ subtle _ . He appreciates the worry, of course he does, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been doing the same to the man in the driver’s seat. Checking he was okay, checking for wounds that didn’t exist. But it made him squirm - and  _ not _ in the good way. He knew he was being closed off if Daryl had noticed, but he couldn’t exactly bring himself to make conversation that had become custom with them, least of all idle small talk.

He brings his knees a little closer to his chest and rests his chin between them, peering out of the window to catch a glance as they pass a highway sign for the prison, licks of green paint peeling and exposing angry rust beneath. 

_ United States Penitentiary of Senoia, Ten Miles _ .

Blood sticks to the poles holding it up, garbage bag of clothing sat at the base completely ripped apart. A small body, or the remnants of one, lay decaying and curled against it.

A walker stumbles on the granite ahead a couple minutes later, jaw dripping with red, reaching a spindly hand out to their vehicle before it hits the bonnet and grinds beneath the wheels.

Paul turns to face Daryl, bile in his throat.

“You think they were telling the truth?” Daryl’s voice is deeper than normal from sheer misuse, and Paul startles at the break of silence. “That, uh, Abraham and Rosita?”

Paul rested his temple against his knee. “I don’t see why they’d lie. The map she gave me is consistent with what she told us. Must be important if they’re passing up on a safe community, maybe gas and food at the least.”

Daryl taps at the steering wheel uselessly as he ponders a response. He swallows hard. “Reckon they were prepper nut-jobs?”

“Probably. But I’d like to think that they were telling us the truth.” Paul scoffs, smiling despite himself. Daryl’s eyes skirt over to him again, and his own appears uncertain, but definitely more genuine than Paul’s. He turns his gaze back to the road, free hand twitching in his lap.

Paul doesn’t press.

When Daryl slips his hand into his, it’s enough to damper the dread eating into his chest.

“We got what we came for,” He states as the treeline of the forest that surrounds the prison comes into view, voice gentle and, admittedly, just what Paul needs, “Everybody’s gonna appreciate what we did, you did. Going out there just for them to be happy. You did good.”

The attempt at reassurance brings a smile to his face, albeit small, but unfeigned. And real.

“You too,” He manages, “Who cares about some deer when you’ve scored the group this stuff, huh?”

“Was only ‘cause of you,” Daryl adds, calloused thumb tracing over smooth, bloodied knuckles. His ears are tinged crimson to match. “So.”

Paul huffs, “The map was Glenn’s - and that’s only because of Maggie, actually, so I didn’t do-”

“Weren’t talkin’ about the fuckin’ map, Paul.” He clarified, face turned up as if he were fighting a sigh, before he let up. “You were why I stopped moping, helped me out without a thought. No hesitation, you just wanted to help me out, just make me feel good, because that’s what you do, who you are. It’s appreciated. That’s all ‘m sayin’.”

“Oh,” Paul contributes uselessly.

And that funny, irritatingly unbearable flutter in his stomach is  _ not _ new. 

He settles on squeezing Daryl’s hand for lack of what to do, resting his forehead against his thighs and wondering when the fuck he became so fucking enamored by this man and his community and the little, mismatched family that he’d almost lost his life for.

+

Sasha waves them in at the gate. She must call to Rick from where he’s tending to the poultry with Carl to help out because the leader jogs over with a grin. 

They get a nod in greeting, Rick patting Sasha on the shoulder as he grunts a breathless  _ hello _ that gives Daryl a run for his money. They move to keep pace with the car as it comes to a halt, the engine spitting in retaliation. 

“Need help with that, hotshot?” She retorts in a voice that makes it clear that the question is rhetorical and entirely a tease, gesturing to Paul as he struggles to lift a crate.

“Please,” He huffs anyway.

She meets him halfway, getting a grip on the other side of the crate with a tilt of her lips. Medical supplies, the kind that weren’t easy to happen upon by, candy for the kids and a sealed box of honey that they’d found in the diner.

“Hey, Grimes?” She squints in the evening sun, still burning away. “Remind me to get Ty to take a look at that engine later.”

Rick squints, smile gentle behind the wiry, grey starting of a beard. He lifts the edge of a crate that Daryl is clearly too proud to ask help with. “It ain’t our only one, definitely ain’t our best either. We don’t need anymore runs for at least a week thanks to these two. I’ll check it out when I have spare time. Ain’t no need to bother Tyreese with extra work, the both of you do enough already.”

“Thank you, Rick,” Sasha dimples, eyes replaced by creases. “Seriously.”

Rick nodded, a jut of his chin, squeezing her shoulder. “It’s what we do.”

“Carol’s gonna dote on the both of you,” He continued, turning to Daryl with a chortle, though there’s warmth to it. “She’s decided that bakin’ is her  _ thing _ now."

“Those acorn cookies she keeps forcin’ down our throats not give you any indication of that before?” Daryl snorts, smile dropping as he turns to peer back at Paul, hand wavering. “Y’alright?”

“Yeah,” Paul breathed, not convinced his words or his laugh that followed were entirely convincing. “Can’t wait to go wash this crap out of my hair, is all.”

“‘Kay,” Daryl nods, flesh of his cheek between his teeth. Rick cast a glance back at them, giving an appreciative smile as he lowered the crate next to the pantry door. 

“I really do appreciate this, we all do,” Rick grips Daryl’s forearm as he passes to get to the next crate with Sasha, and he did  _ not _ miss the fact that Rick’s gaze lingers on himself, painted in concern. “The two of you, go get yourselves cleaned up, it’s an order. We’ll finish up here.”

Daryl gives a salute. 

+

“Got blood in my fuckin’ ear,” Daryl peers into the mirror, pushing his hair back to get a closer look. His mouth twists up, and isn’t  _ that _ ironic. The man who seemed to have embraced the dirt that took permanent residence on his skin, who he had watched skin hapless rodents and deer, was concerned about a little blood.

“Huh,” Paul stared down at his own skin, still dirtied and every crevice rich with flaking crimson. “I probably have, too.”

“Hey,” The other man offers quietly, dropping his washcloth in the basin. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I already told you that I am,” He can’t help but let slip, anger and exhaustion seeping into his core. The protest as Daryl steps closer is weak at best, voice wavering and skin cold. “Can’t you just leave it?”

Daryl takes a hold of his wrist, grip delicate, and Paul does nothing to stop it. He begins to dab at the red that stained Paul’s skin. He can’t help but watch, finding his presence nothing but calming.

(Comforting.)

Daryl offers a crooked smile behind dark hair before he goes back to it without a word. He’s beautiful, Paul thinks, no, knows. He reaches out to tuck it behind a round ear, and he swears that he can hear Daryl’s breath falter for a second.

“Sorry,” He mumbles out.

“S’alright.” The grip on his wrist falls and hovers over his waist when it becomes obvious that Paul isn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t if he tried.

He doesn’t realize that he’s crying until Daryl’s hand tangles in the fine hair at his nape and pulls him closer. His head falls onto Daryl’s shoulder, face in his neck as he shakes. Daryl’s hand falls to span his shoulder blades, grounding, and he’s perfectly content with staying like this.

He hears a soft hum, and it takes a moment to register that it’s Daryl in his ear.

“Just,” He whispers, thumb rubbing a semi-circular path on his skin, “Let me help you, alright?”

He found himself gripping at Daryl’s vest as he pulled back enough to speak without it being muffled. As if sensing his unease, the bowman’s hands travelled to his arms and to his hands. Because  _ of course _ he did. “When I thought it was over, I thought of you. Of- of how I couldn’t do this without you. Or, I guess, more I didn’t want to die without-”

Daryl swallowed. “Without?”

“You mean so fucking much to me,” He rushed out, words stumbling over each other. “Like, you’ve always-”

He cut off, fist clenching as he huffs out a laugh of frustration. Daryl is silent, patient as he rubs circles into Paul’s skin, and it makes his heart surge. “I don’t know how to say shit like this, fuck, I don’t do sentimental. I don’t know how to. But you’re really important to me, that I know, okay? And I can’t lose you.”

Daryl’s head falls onto his shoulder, nose tickling the skin. He feels a smile against his throat, and a soft sigh escapes him as warmth spreads at the act. It feels good, feels right. He wouldn’t know, really, given that he kept intimacy a good arms’ length away from him for his entire life outside of hookups.

But it’s natural. 

Daryl has, somehow, wormed his way into Paul’s being. And he doesn’t want to fight it anymore. Can’t. He wants to give into the thing that’s got this fucking grip on him, that terrifies his entire being. 

So he does.

When Daryl looks up, Paul presses their lips together.

For a second, all that he feels is Daryl’s sharp intake of breath, his heart rabbiting in his chest because Daryl isn’t fucking moving and he just screwed everything up. He thought wrong.

He pulls away, apology already on his tongue, when Daryl’s hand tangles in his nape and Paul fucking  _ keens _ . 

“Paul,” Eyes half-lidded, he whispers the name like a prayer, or a curse. Paul couldn’t care less.

Daryl leans in, hovers for a moment, breath fanning Paul’s mouth until he joins their lips again. Properly.

There’s blood crusted in the nails that he digs into Daryl’s shoulder to pull him closer, salt tracked on the cheek that Daryl’s thumb traces. It’s them and it’s perfect and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Paul’s spine floods with electricity when Daryl lets slip a whine, hand curled under his jaw shaking.

“Hey,” Paul pulls back, breathless, mouth to Daryl’s ear. “It’s just me, alright? You’re perfect.”

He feels Daryl’s heart thump against his palm as he nods.

They take a moment,the only sound being each breath they heave out until Daryl pulls him back. Paul breathes a laugh against his lips, can’t help himself because  _ what the fuck is happening _ , and Daryl licks at the seam of his.

It’s so, so slow, enough for every hair on his body to stand, for heat to rush downward. 

Daryl pulls back to nuzzle at his neck, breath hot on the skin. Paul’s head falls back automatically, throat exposed and willing. 

The skin of his Adam’s apple is sucked into the warm heat of Daryl’s mouth, tongue soothing the red, and the rest of his jaw gets the same treatment until Daryl’s hovering over his collarbone.

“Please,” He’s surprised by the moan that leaves him when Daryl shushes him as he leans back in, and he could get used to this  _ very _ quickly.

He hooks his arms around Daryl’s waist when they pull away to breathe again, and this time it’s Daryl who huffs out a laugh.

“What just happened,” His grin is infectious, the flush of his cheeks as he struggles to meet his eyes making Paul want to drop to his knees right there. 

Another time, maybe. He’s certainly not ruining whatever this is.

“You’re incredible,” He blurts, in awe, nose brushing Daryl’s.

Daryl’s eyes search his, wide and so full of pure, raw emotion that Paul’s chest constricts. “What you said- I can’t either. Ever.”

Paul swallowed, leaning his forehead against Daryl’s own and inhaling deeply. 

“You need to shower,” Daryl murmured, running a hand through Paul’s knotted hair.

Paul let out a snort, shaking his head. “Smooth.”

“Shut up, dick,” Daryl grinned, grip slipping down Paul’s arm until his hand was in Paul’s. “You’re dirtier than me.”

“He’s self-aware!” Paul called to no one, laughing when Daryl pushes at his shoulder. 

“I hate you.”

“Mhm,” Paul nodded, reading between the lines, leaning up to press his lips to Daryl’s jaw. “You, too.”


End file.
